


A Man Called Altamont

by sevenpercent



Series: Impossible Vision [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BAMF!John, Drug Use, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sexual Content, Violence, Wordcount: Over 10.000, Wordcount: Over 50.000, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 60,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenpercent/pseuds/sevenpercent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson returns home wounded from Afghanistan to take a job with MI6.  He meets Sherlock Holmes who is undercover as a man called Altamont.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to fan-fic... so I appreciate any comments or suggestions. If you find something wrong, especially brit pick, please let me know, I'll change it! Hope you enjoy, I'm having fun writing this!
> 
> Now newly edited! Thanks everyone for the input! 
> 
> I combined some chapters in the new edit, so comments were lost. I'm so sorry this happened! If you wrote in a comment and it is missing, please post it again. I LOVE the comments!

Traditional therapy didn’t work for John Watson. Sitting in a posh office, white noise machine, comfortable chairs, therapist, talking about _feelings_ , exploring emotions, opening your mind to a stranger, that may work for some people, but not John. He was a man of action. He didn’t think about things, or talk about them, he _did_ them.

That was what got him into medicine. Not the intellectual challenge of it, the mindless memorization, the endless patient complaints. No, it was the action. Trauma, emergency medicine, reacting to the unexpected, never knowing what was going to come next. Life threatening situations, where time was the enemy, quick thinking was the antidote. Where one wrong move could cost someone their life, or one brilliant insight could save it.

When civilian trauma no longer was enough of an adrenaline rush, he joined the RAMC. Battlefield trauma, gunshot wounds, shrapnel, explosions. Not only the unpredictability of the injuries, the bizarre wounds you would never see anywhere else, all while avoiding becoming a target yourself. Being shot at, shelled, ambushed, and the suicide bombers. Even when you were not on duty you had to have your guard up. You had to sleep with your armor and gun near by, never out of reach. It was a constant state of adrenaline.

That was, until he became a statistic. One of the many wounded in action. Riding in a Humvee, third vehicle in the caravan, watching as the lead vehicle flew into the air in an explosion of metal, fuel and body parts. Jumping out, rushing to help the prone figure lying on the road side, painfully aware as his shoulder erupted in fire, unable to move, buried in pain, weakness, feeling the warmth and stickiness of his own blood as it poured over his neck and chest, down his useless limp arm. Hearing the staccato beats of fire fights around him, the screaming of his comrades, and of his own voice mixed in. His own legs bending and squirming of their own accord, unable to gain any traction on the sand, of Bill Murray, his orderly, sliding in next to him, saying something, but John couldn’t hear what, he could only see Bill’s lips moving, and hear his own screams in the place of Bill’ words. Of not remembering anything else until we woke up in hospital, attached to monitors, IVs, his arm, and shoulder wrapped to his body. Plasters on his head and chest, cuts and bruising around the plasters, and almost anywhere there was bare skin. Sand burns to his face.

He remembered wishing that Murray had left him, had let him bleed out. Left him with the men that John had tried to save but couldn’t. Left him in a place where his death may mean something, rather than returning him to a life that meant nothing. What use was an army doctor with a useless arm?

“Whoa…whoa there… hey man… your timer went off about a minute ago, let up...”

John’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice of a stranger, then the ringing of an alarm, as he focused on the man on the other side of the heavy bag. The man was holding the bag, stilling it, but using it as a barricade between himself and John as well. Sweat dripping off of his body, John pulled his fists back to his body, then dropped them to his sides. “Em… right… thanks. I got a bit focused there.” John popped the button on his timer to silence it.

The other man chuckled. “Do you think?” John allowed himself a smile.

John looked down at his hands, wrapped in his usual manner, soaking wet with sweat, blood staining the knuckles. He didn’t need to explain anything to this man, but as he had few friends in which he kept in touch with, he found being able to confide in a stranger, if only for a moment, cathartic.

“Just trying to get back into shape.” Without realizing it, John rotated his left shoulder and straightened his left arm.

The man smiled back. “From what I see you’re in pretty damn good shape. You could beat the shit out of just about anyone I know… Did you ever think about going into security?”

John’s brow furrowed. Being in shape for a civilian was one thing, but being in shape as a soldier was something entirely different. He still felt weak, from the prolonged recovery he needed from his shoulder wound, unable to work out, muscles wasting away. But especially weak on his left side, his dominant arm. He wasn’t going to stop trying to return to form. This was his therapy, his chance at a return to normalcy. Words did little, what he needed was this.

John looked at the man, dressed in dark pressed trousers and a white button down shirt, incongruous with the rest of the frequenters of a gym, but didn’t say anything more. Instead, he depressed the button again on his timer, and started jabbing at the bag.

**

“Oi! Can I get another?”

There was a gentle din of voices mixed with the humming of the radio piped in over the speakers which helped mask the order John placed at the bar. It didn’t matter, he was seated on a stool facing the bartender and having to wait a few minutes for another pint made no difference to him. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere else to go.

There was a squeak of a chair behind him, and the squeal of a female voice “Don’t! Let go of me!” John heard a deep chuckle and some grunted response, but he couldn’t make out the words. John turned to see a hefty dark haired man firmly grasping the wrist of a young gal, who was struggling against his hold. He was trying to whisper something in her ear as she fought against him. “No, stop!”

John stood up, noisily pushing his stool back, and confronted the man. “You heard the lady. I don’t think she wants to go with you.” John was shorter than the man, but clearly in better shape, his muscled chest and shoulders contrasting with his trim waist.

The man looked John up and down, released his grip on the woman’s wrist, and held his hands up, palms out. “No harm meant, mate.” The man smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. The woman rubbed her wrist and scooted behind John, distancing herself from the aggressor. The man looked once at the woman, again at John, and walked out of the pub.

John watched the door for about 15 seconds, and deciding that the man had left, sat back down. The woman, clearly relieved, slid close to him and swooned delightedly “Thank you! Oh my god, I don’t know what I would have done without you.” John wasn’t interested in company. He smiled at her briefly, mumbled something that she didn’t hear and drew into himself, his body language clearly indicating his desire to be left alone. The woman touched his arm, and thanked him again, but as he didn’t reply, she shrugged and returned to her table.

He drank his pint in silence, enjoying the anonymity of being just another bloke in a pub, separate from the damaged retired military doctor that he was the rest of the day. No one here cared where you came from, or where you were going. No one cared if you had a past, or what it was, or whether or not what you told people was even the truth. It seemed even better when it wasn’t the truth. This was the type of place where the tallest tales were the ones most enjoyed. Here he could sit, alone, listen, and not have to say a word.

John dropped a few quid next to his empty glass, slid his feet flat on the floor, and rose. The sounds of the pub rang in his ears, and when he retreated out the front door, it was strangely quiet.

The evening was damp and cool, but his bedsit was only a short walk away. As he started down the street, he heard a clank behind him. He stopped, an briefly looked around, half expecting to see someone he knew. There was no one there, so he continued on. After several paces, he heard another noise, rather indistinct, and he turned around again and scanned the street. He had a strange feeling that he was being followed. Being an ex-military man, he had a well developed sense of intuition about these things. It could mean the difference between life and death on patrol. It had, many times, for John, meant just that. There were a few street lights that illuminated focal areas, but with long stretches of dark between them. He saw nothing. He looked around for any signs of other people, of any movement, any shadow that appeared out of place, but he saw nothing. He appeared to be alone.

He quickened his pace, wishing that he had taken his gun with him. He usually took his gun when he went out, but lately had fallen out of the habit of carrying it. About the only place he ever went anymore was the gym. Working out gave him a purpose that he otherwise wouldn’t have. It gave meaning to his unmeaningful life. Unfortunately, there was no where to secure a gun at the gym. And he couldn’t risk it being swiped there, after all, it wasn’t exactly legal.

As he reached the nadir of light, he heard clear rapid footfall behind him. He tried to turn, but was not quick enough, having just enough to drink to dull his reflexes. There was a sudden pressure against his back, and he was pushed forward onto his chest with the weight of a man resting on him, his face slamming into the pavement. John’s cheeks swelled with a metallic taste, and he spit the liquid out of his mouth, his tongue sweeping over his teeth, feeling for weakness in them. Fortunately, all his teeth seemed firmly in place. He felt the fists of the man laying over him against his shoulders, and he rolled, pushed at the man who had been on him, and wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, completing a strangle hold. He contemplated for just a moment shutting the man’s airway off permanently, but decided it wouldn’t be worth risking jail time, even though he saw it clearly as self defense. He had no chance to think further.

He felt a sharp pain in the side of his head, with an audible crack, and his grasp weakened momentarily, but long enough for the trapped man to escape. John felt himself fall once again to the pavement, his head pounding and all the control over his body temporarily gone. He pushed his arms under his body, and fought to rise, but his head was spinning, and throbbing, and his recent drink was threatening to come back up his throat.

He heard some deep laughter, at least 2 maybe 3 voices, and a sudden blow to his abdomen from a heavy boot. His stomach emptied forcefully, projectile liquid spewing across the pavement, and the laughter became louder. John was sprawled flat on his stomach, and the boots continued to kick at him, and it felt like no bit of him was off limits. He tried to grab the foot as it kicked at his face, and actually held on to the foot and twisted once, felling his assailant. He heard some more laughter as the assailant was ridiculed by his 2 accomplices. John somehow got his feet under himself, rose, and lifted his fists. It was dark, but he saw the outline of 3 men facing him. One of them came forward, and John got 2 quick jabs in, flattening the man.

“Shite.” He heard one of the men say. John spit another mouthful of blood to the pavement, which actually felt good, like he was expelling the pain. The tallest of the men, a good 7 inches taller than John, and quite heavy, lumbered forward, swinging his fists madly. John was light on his feet, easily avoiding the punches, and John gave him a one-two combination, turning the man around, but the man remained on his feet. The man rubbed his jaw, and smiled, his left front tooth absent. John swept the man’s feet out from under him, and the giant came crashing down. Unfortunately for John, the other 2 men came at him at the same time.

Knuckle dusters are an unfair advantage, especially when there are 2 men against one. John stayed on his feet long enough to deliver some damage to the faces of the two men, but not long enough to escape. He felt a sharp bash against his temple, and everything went dark.

**

The next John was aware, there were hands holding him down. He fought with all his might, but his head was pounding, his body ached all over, and he was overcome with nausea and lethargy. Voices were shouting around him, but he didn’t understand a word of it. The voices were dancing around him, some of them quite loud, and others far off in the distance. The voices made him cringe; they were boring into his head, piercing his cranium with every word, making him lash out at the source of the pain. He felt a sharp stab in his arm, and the ground under him moved. He let himself dissolve into the darkness.

**

When next aware, John was flat on his back, light invading his restless sleep through heavy eyelids. Relentless throbbing sounded in his ears. Opening his eyes just made the throbbing worse, and he squinted in an attempt to compensate. He tried to raise his arms to his face, but found that he couldn’t, that a dull pressure on his forearms intensified when he tried to move. He opened his eyes fully, focusing on his arms, and found that there were restraints on both his arms and legs keeping his firmly anchored to the bed. His right arm had a plaster on it, with IV line leading into the wrap. Struggling against the restraints, John tried to yell out, but at first all that came out was a throaty croak. Working at it, after three attempts, he managed enough volume to be heard. “Hey….Let me out of here….someone….”

A trim woman with mousey brown shoulder length hair and lavender hospital scrubs scurried into the room. “Stop! Stop pulling!” John’s arms steadied, and he looked at her, exasperated. “What the hell is going on? What are these for? Take them off!” He pulled against the restraints again, and the nurse spit out, “Hold on, stop it and I’ll get the doctor.” John took a deep breath, sighed loudly and stared at her, his arms still and silent beside him.

“That’s better. Now just hold still while I get the doctor.” The annoyed woman disappeared, and there was quiet, except for the gentle humming of the fluorescent lights overhead.

In about 2 minutes a stout gray haired man, about 50ish, slowly advanced into the room. He had a tablet in his arm and was looking at the screen. John struggled to maintain his patience. The man looked up from the tablet and forced an insincere smile.

“Well hello there…” he left the sentence hanging, inviting John to fill in the blank.

“Dr. Watson. Dr. John Watson. And what the hell is this?!” He looked pointedly at the restraints.

“Well Mr. Watson,”

“Doctor Watson”

The man smiled at John indulgently. “Yes, _Dr_. Watson.” The physician clearly did not believe John.

“Christ.” John said to himself. “Why do I have these? Can’t you take these things off?” He was looking again at the restraints.

“Mr. em, Dr. what did you say, Watcom?”

“Watson.”

“Oh, right, Watson. You were quite combative at the accident scene. You wouldn’t let the paramedics help you. They had to restrain you to treat you. And it’s our policy to leave restraints on until cleared by a suitable physician.” He spoke as if he were talking to a toddler.

“John shook his head in disgust, then a realization hit him. A realization he should have made sooner based on how he felt, but his anger had distracted him. “What did they give me?”

”What?” The physician feigned ignorance.

“What did they give me? To calm me. What did they give me?”

“It was just a sedative.”

John glared at him. “I figured that. What was it?”

“Lorazapam.”

That explained some of the lightness he felt in his head. John took another deep breath. “Alright, what do I have to do to get you to take these things off?” Honestly, was the man an idiot?

“First you have to tell us who you are; you don’t have any ID on you.”

“Doctor John Watson.”

“Can you verify that? Can we call someone, next of kin? We have to have positive identification for our records, and because of the _incident_.” He spoke the last word with distaste.

“Jesus Christ.” John was incredulous. Someone who could vouch for him? He didn’t have any family. Well, there was Harry, but he hadn’t talked with her since he enlisted. That was years ago; He didn’t even know where she lived anymore. He had documents at his bedsit, but without being allowed to leave, that did him no good. There was Ella, his therapist, who he stopped seeing against her advice 4 months ago. This was just great. Trying to convince this idiot doctor who he was, and that he was no threat and not crazy, and all he could offer was a therapist that he hasn’t seen in 4 months. Terrific. “No one. There is no one.”

The gray haired man looked at him and nodded. “Well, I’ll have Dr. Johnson come and talk with you then. If she deems you unlikely to harm yourself or others, we will take the restraints off.”

“Great.” John replied sarcastically.

**

Once the psychiatrist, Dr. Johnson, came to John’s room to interview him, it didn’t take long to convince her that he was sane, and not a threat to anyone. The restraints were removed, and John moved his limbs around, trying to ease the ache out of them. His left shoulder was particularly stiff, which irritated him to no end. He had spent months rehabbing that shoulder, only to take a giant step backwards, compliments of Doctor Dickhead. John was preparing to check himself out, but had promised Dr. Johnson that he would speak with an inspector first to report his assault.

John pulled his hospital gown away from the right side of himself to inspect his bruises. He was quite impressed by the variety of sizes and colors of the bruises along his chest, side and leg. The bruises had started changing hues, from red black to yellow. He looked at his knuckles, scraped raw, and his fingers and back of his hand were bruised as well. In fact, about the only place that there wasn’t some form of bruise was his foot.

There was a knock at his door, and a man with short gray hair in a trench coat slipped in. “Dr. Watson?” He enquired. John nodded. The man reached into his pocked and pulled out a brown leather billfold and held it out to John, smiling. “Look familiar?” John reached for the billfold, and inspecting it, started to grin. It was the first good thing that happened to him that day. “Found it a block from the scene, in a dust bin.” The man explained. The man held out a hand “DI Lestrade.” John took his hand and shook it. “John Watson.”

“Lestrade…” into the room ambled a tall, thin, pale man, with raven hair and tussles of loose curls. His eyes were a brilliant blue gray. His features were sharp, regal, almost to the point of being severe, his cheekbones easily drawing John’s attention. John hadn’t seen anyone who took his breath away like this in a long time. Especially not a man. _Exquisite_ was the word that came to John’s mind. Something stirred in his groin, physical evidence of his arousal. The man stopped and eyed John, his eyes piercing, as if he were boring right thru the prone man. John realized that his gown was still open along his side, and, although he was not an overly modest man, he pulled his gown over the Kaleidoscope of colors showing on this skin.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sherlock…” Lestrade warned.

“What?” John was looking at the younger man.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man repeated.

“Em, Afghanistan… but… how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I saw.” The man explained. John looked puzzled.

“Sherlock, really not a good time.” The DI admonished.

The man, Sherlock, looked at Lestrade annoyed. “Special forces?” He looked at John.

“What...... No… Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. RAMC.” Lestrade started laughing at that. John looked at him, wondering what was funny.

“Wrong!” Lestrade said delightedly at Sherlock. “Wrong!”

“Don’t be so immature.”

“Please! Look who is talking!” Lestrade retorted. “What? You can gloat when you are right. Let me have my fun when you are _wrong_. It’s not like it happens very often.” Sherlock looked put out.

“It was a valid deduction, given the evidence.” Sherlock said quietly.

“Evidence? What evidence?” Lestrade was incredulous.

“The bruises. There were, what, three assailants, judging by the different bruises?” Sherlock looked at John for confirmation. John just looked at him dumbfounded. “And his hands, the bruising, and the bloody knuckles, clearly he fought back, and not just once, for a prolonged time.” Sherlock was speaking as if John wasn’t even there. “And then, the knuckle dusters, struck him at least twice. One man against three in a prolonged struggle, not the normal profile of a doctor.”

“Brilliant!” It just came out of John’s mouth.

“Do you really think so?” Sherlock preened.

“It was amazing, absolutely extraordinary.” John’s words caused Sherlock to smile contentedly. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?” John asked.

“Piss off.” John smiled at that, chuckling quietly, and Sherlock joined in. Lestrade looked at the two men and shook his head.

Sherlock suddenly looked as if he remembered something important. “Gotta run,” he said. “Left my riding crop in the mortuary.” Sherlock ghosted out of the room, hardly appearing as if his feet touched the floor. John was left breathless, intrigued by the odd man who had whisked in and out of his room.

Lestrade looked back at John. “Sorry about that… he’s just… well, it’s hard to explain actually…” Lestrade rubbed his face with his hand. “Alright, let’s get onto your statement then.”

John told Lestrade what he could remember, but his thoughts were not on the task at hand, but on the amazing man that had briefly flitted in and out of his room.

**

John was at the weight bench a few days later, flat on his back, raising and lower the barbell overhead and keeping count of his reps, when a voice interrupted his concentration.

“Hey there.” The face of the man John met a few days before at the gym greeted him with a smile. The man was attired similar to last time he saw him; He must be an employee or owner of this gym, John thought. Not a patron. John extended his elbows, raising the weights to the highest point, replaced the weights on the rack and sat up, catching his breath.

Reaching down below the bench, John grasped his water bottle with his left hand and squirted some fluid into his mouth, gazing at the man, wondering what he could want. John was not feeling especially friendly today, always being a bit skeptical about people and their motives. And especially not today, given how many people had stopped to stare at his plasters and bruises. He really did look fantastically painted, but that was no one else’s business but his.

The man sensed John’s hesitation, but it did not dissuade him from continuing. He reached out a hand “Victor. Victor Trevor.” John wiped his hand on his track suit, and extended it “John Watson.”

John stood up, grabbed his water bottle, and moved to the hand weights a few paces away. Victor trailed him with his eyes. John took a weight in each hand and started doing curls. Victor just watched him. “Bit awkward, this… having my own fan club.” John quipped. Victor smiled. “The man has a sense of humor.”

John stopped and glared at Victor, and tried not to sound as irritated as he was. He came to the gym to be alone with his thoughts, not to engage in small talk with strangers. “Not to be rude, but I’m a bit busy here. What do you want?”

Victor tried to diffuse the tension by continuing to grin. “I just wanted to talk to you….about a potential opportunity.”

 _An opportunity_? John thought to himself. _It sounds like an investment scam. He must think I’m wealthy or something._ Out loud he said “I’m sorry, I’m not interested in investing in anything.” He sounded dismissive, and focused his attention back on his task.

“No, you misunderstand me. I’m not talking about investments. I’d like to talk with you about a possible job.”

John stopped, his left arm curled with the barbell near his chin, his right arm extended straight. “A job?” John had not been thinking about, or even looking for a job. He had the occasional locum work as a doctor. His needs were minimal and his pension covered most of his expenses, given the rough neighborhood he chose to live in. Coving the occasional shift at the A & E gave him sufficient spending money. He had little desire to continue practicing medicine beyond what he was already doing. His focus had been mainly his own rehab, recovering from the bullet that ended his military career in the blink of an eye, with little regard or thoughts about the future.

“Yes, a job.” Victor confirmed. 

_What kind of job would you be offering me? I’m a stranger to you, after all. You know nothing at all about me_ , John thought. But he was intrigued. Absentmindedly, John resumed his curls. “What kind of job?”

The man in the pressed trousers and crisp shirt smiled. “I asked you last time if you had considered going into security. That’s what I do. I recruit… suitable candidates… to help us with security.”

John frowned. “And who is ‘us’?”

The man’s smile remained, but it seemed less sincere. “I’m really not at liberty to say at this point….Can we go somewhere, get a bite to eat or some tea….and discuss it further?” He looked around. “This isn’t really a good place to talk.”

John had lost count of his reps; He was no longer concentrating on his work out. Realizing that his attention was elsewhere, he lowered the weights to their empty spots on the rack.

John’s thoughts focused. This man wasn’t talking about being a bouncer, or mall security. He wasn’t talking about prison guards or military police. John had been in the military long enough to know that ‘security’ meant much more than that. There was something about what Victor, if that was actually his real name, wouldn’t say, and the way he held himself. John wondered at first which branch of the government or military outfit Victor was part of. But instantly he realized he had already ruled out the military as the ‘us’. Victor did not carry himself like a soldier- military habits, posture, gestures- those things remained with a man out of uniform, even years later. John could spot a military or ex-military man miles away, without even being able to explain how or why he knew. This man was not military trained. Government trained then, or private contract.

The clinking of the weight machine being reset lulled John’s thoughts forward.

Working for the government, whatever secret department may be involved, or the private sector, both meant very similar things. It’s just that the employer would be different. Both likely involved in covert ‘cloak and dagger’ types of assignments if not at first, then eventually. Working for the government, idealistically, meant working for the ‘good guys’, for queen and country, while working private contract was a very tongue-in-cheek way of saying the activities were, more likely than not, illegal, immoral or unpalatable. The client or employer of private ‘security’ may be rogue governments, have organized crime ties, or possibly terrorist connections. The difference between the two only mattered if you thought it mattered if you worked for the ‘good guys’ or the ‘bad guys’.

John eyed Victor, searching his face for anything that would give him any more insight, although he already had decided what he was going to say. The mask that had come over Victor’s face gave nothing away. “There’s a small coffee shop around the corner we could go to. Can you give me ten minutes to shower and change?” The corner of Victor’s mouth edged up and he nodded in response.

**

Dressed in jeans and an oatmeal jumper, with his gym bag on the seat next to him, John looked down at the steaming mug of tea on the table in front of him. The coffee shop was small and cozy, with soft music providing a soothing background hum. He picked the mug up, brought it to his lips and sipped gingerly, letting the liquid cool a bit as it slipped from the mug to his lips. There was a small ring of liquid on the table where the mug had been placed, and John brushed at it with the side of his hand, smearing it.

The man who called himself Victor Trevor lowered himself into the seat across from John, placing a small plate with a biscuit and cup of coffee on the table, and placed two napkins in the center of the booth. He blew on the surface of the steaming beverage, but did not drink.

John reached for one of the napkins and wiped at the wet spot on the table. He watched as a design formed in the dampness, and he wiped again to dry it completely. His eyes scanned the coffee shop for any familiar faces; seeing none he stared back down at his tea. Finally he looked at the man across from him. “Well, go on… talk.”

John was often a man of few words. He certainly didn’t partake in small talk with people that he didn’t know. Victor took a sip of his coffee. “Right onto business then… All right. Well, I told you the basics already. I work for some… powerful people… and we are always looking for ambitious, hard working, discrete individuals to join us. It seemed like you may be a good fit for us.” He looked at his biscuit, touched it with the fingertips of his right hand and inspected it. Then he left it on the plate.

“And what makes you think I’d be a good fit… you don’t even know me.” 

Victor looked serious as he answered. “We know more about you than you think… We know your parents are deceased, you have 1 sister, who you are not close to, that you graduated third in your medical school class, completed a residency in emergency medicine, then enlisted.” Victor wet his lips again with his coffee. “A bit unusual, that. But it’s clear that you are not the usual sort.”

John fidgeted with the handle of his mug, and Victor continued. “You were well respected by your unit, a top soldier, and marksman, making the rank of Captain, as well as a surgeon. Many men owe you their life, not only due to your medical skills, but also your steady nerve and bravery. You were wounded near Kandahar, sniper bullet to your left shoulder.” Victor’s eyes locked onto Johns, waiting for any response. John just returned the stare. Reaching down besides himself, Victor pulled a briefcase up to the seat next to him, thumbed the clasp to the side, and when the top popped open, pulled out a file folder and opened it on the table top.

“After several months you were officially discharged, and continued to receive treatment, physical therapy for your injury, and therapy for the psychological trauma. As I personally witnessed, your rehabilitation seems to be fairly complete.” Victor ran his finger down a document, searching for a particular point. When he reached it, his finger remained on the paper, but his eyes met John’s. “Do you want me to continue?”

John’s fists were clenched under the table. Most of the information that Victor was relaying to him was a matter of public record, but it would take some work to ferret it out. He was a bit disturbed that someone took the effort to research him, and had the nerve to confront him with the information. This man meant business, and had resources to back it up. John did not reply to the question.

Looking back at the document that his finger was marking, Victor continued. “Trust issues.” This shook John up. “Sorry, how do you know that?” John’s heart rate and breathing had sped up, and he was getting angry. Sure, it was no secret, but to have it documented? Were those his therapist’s notes? Those were confidential records. This man had no business bringing it up.

Victor’s mask across his face remained. “Don’t worry, we don’t necessarily consider that a bad thing… unless it interferes with your loyalties.”

John needed to get some information out of Victor. The conversation had been too one sided already. “And my loyalties would be to whom?”

Victor smiled and weighed his words carefully. “You would need to successfully complete our application process to get any more specific information. But let me say that we believe it is consistent with your past loyalties. Nothing untoward or nefarious, I assure you.” Victor’s smile did not reach his eyes.

John pushed forward. “And the application process…”

“Is nothing that should concern you. As you can see we have already done some preliminary fact-finding. We will look deeper into your history, with your permission, of course.” John sneered at this. “And there would be some competency tests, physical challenges, marksmanship, a psychological evaluation, an intelligence test, nothing that you should find difficult.”

John nodded his head. “I see.” John wondered, with all the research that Victor and his people had already done, if they would continue to try to recruit John until he relented. He had seen similar things happen in the military: once someone was identified as a good candidate for a particular volunteer assignment, they were pursued, harassed, until they agreed to the assignment. And, for that matter, was this for a particular assignment, one that he may be particularly suited to, being both a doctor and a soldier, or was this a general recruitment? Even though information had not been very forthcoming, he decided on the direct approach.

“And my assignment?” 

“Would be determined after your evaluation. Some assignments are very short, for a particular event, and some are long term, requiring relocation for various periods of time. Your time may not be your own during those assignments, but the compensation is…adequate.” John was not concerned about compensation, but he nodded his head anyways.

John took a long sip of tea. For the last several months John had denied to himself the possibility of return to a normal life, or what he had considered normal. To him normal was not what he had been doing lately, barely living and occasionally going to a job that he hated. Living was always doing the unexpected, not knowing what was coming next, filled with adrenaline, spontaneity. After he was wounded, he had been unable to hope that life would be more than simple, mundane, day to day survival with little excitement. Perhaps he had been wrong… Perhaps there was still a chance of doing something with his life that would help others, be interesting, and exciting, and give his a sense of purpose. Perhaps Victor was not just offering him a job, but a chance for a new start. He had to at least explore the possibility…

John looked up at Victor, who had been quietly examining his coffee cup. John took a sip of tea to wet his lips. “So, it’s been a bit since I’ve been out shooting. Know anywhere where I’d be able to brush up?” Victor smiled widely. 

**

The e-mail message on the screen reminded John that it was time to make his way to the pavement. He was looking forward to the chance to get his hands on some weapons and reacquaint himself with the metal. He had his Browning, of course, but had not fired it since returning home. But that old friend was staying in his bedsit today. Victor had assured him that there were plenty of guns at the practice range. In fact, Victor had encouraged him to handle a variety of weapons, as he would need to be familiar with them as part of his evaluation. John smiled at this. He considered himself quite familiar with most of the guns that they could throw at him. He even had some experience with the long range sniper rifles that very few got to practice with.

He reached over and shut the lid of his lap top. Grabbing his jacket, he pocketed his mobile, grabbed his keys, and padded to the door. He closed the door behind himself, inserted his key and turned it, testing the handle to assure himself that it indeed locked. John took the stairs two at a time and slid through the front door to the street level.

In just about a minute, a black sedan pulled to the kerb. A well dressed man opened the driver’s door and stood “Captain Watson?” he asked. John nodded and the man opened a rear door for him, holding it while John crawled in. Closing the door behind him, the man replaced himself in the driver’s seat and started the car forward.

John looked around himself, trying to glean some information, any information, about the people who were interested in him. Tinted windows and heavy patrician to the driver compartment, built to be sound proof, so confidential conversations can take place. The interior of the car was well maintained, but not new. There was a moderated amount of wear to the floor mats, but they were clean and well cared for. It’s not a cab, no personal information on the driver, no mementos, no photos on the dash or front compartment. But one person always drove it, judging by the lack of any indication that the driver’s seat was ever adjusted.

John gazed out the window, watching the people and streets go by. This was a part of London he was unfamiliar with, so he watched absentmindedly rather than trying to anticipate where they were going. Victor never mentioned where the shooting range was, and John hadn’t asked.

The car slowed and took a turn, stopping at a large black wrought iron gate with an attendant at a booth. John looked about. There was an adjacent fence surrounding a large open expanse going off as far as John’s eyes could see. The driver’s side window lowered, ID was given to the attendant and returned, and the large gate motored open. The car rolled slowly forward, along a meandering road, and approached a multi-building facility. The whole set up exuded money.

There was one warehouse style building, fairly large, no windows, off to the right side, slightly away from the other building. The other building looked more like office space, windows at regular intervals, entrance right in the middle of the first floor with card scanner to the left of the door.

The car slowed, hooked to the right, and stopped in front of the warehouse. The engine shut off, and John took that as the signal to open his door.

He stepped out, and didn’t notice the approach of the woman until she was right in front of him. Auburn hair, pulled back in a plait, khaki colored cotton trousers and knit shirt. She gaze was appraising. “Captain Watson.” She said it more than asked it, but he nodded anyways. “This way.” He watched her for a moment as she started for the warehouse door, appreciating the way her hips swung and clothing hugged her curves. Something stirred in his groin, something which he hadn’t felt since before he was wounded. Women were a distraction, a nice distraction, he admitted, but since his injury he was focused on returning to function. He hadn’t been with a woman, even thought about a woman, since Afghanistan. He could appreciate a fit woman, lightly muscled, with a quiet confidence, he definitely could appreciate _her_. Smiling to himself, he briskly caught up to her pace, and fell in step beside her.

“Let’s start out easy. I’ve been led to believe that you can handle a gun.” She looked at him with some amusement, with a look that said _a doctor and a gun, not a good combination_. John had encountered that skepticism before, with most of his COs in fact, as if being a doctor precluded him from being competent in anything else, definitely not in anything related to _violence_. He grinned at her. “I think I do okay.” She swiped an ID card in the card reader and a click sounded. She reached forward, grabbed the handle, and opened the door.

John looked around. They were in a foyer of sorts, with a 6 foot hip-high counter top and paper bound log, pen next to the document, and several doors leading in different directions. “Wait here.” The woman bypassed the counter, swiped her ID in the card reader adjacent to the far right door, and disappeared momentarily. When she reemerged, she was holding a 22 and several clips. Although John knew that the military did not issue 22s as part of their arsenal, he understood they were considered a good “beginners gun” and were often the first ones someone learned on.

She nodded at him again, signaling he was to follow her, and she crossed the room to the door on the far left. John followed, stepping into an open area with targets arranged at various distances. There was a small table where she planted the weapon and its accessories, and she waved her hand, palm upright from John to the gun, silently saying go on then.

They put their ear and eye protection on. John stepped forward, picked up the 22, and felt the weight in his hand. He pulled the slide back, checked the chamber, and replaced the slide. He deftly picked up a partially loaded magazine, slapped it in, and stood in a low ready stance, sliding the safety off. He waited for the ready signal from the woman. “Let’s start with the closest target then. 5 shots.” John looked at her and she nodded. John raised the gun, and steadily shot off 5 rounds in rapid succession, then lowered the weapon.

The woman stared at the target a moment, then John saw her raise one eyebrow. She looked at him. “The distant target, 5 rounds.” He nodded, released the magazine, reinserted a full one, and shot.

The women hesitated a moment, signaled John to set down his weapon, which he did, and she walked to the far target, examining it closely. There was one central hole. She slowly walked back towards John, then looked at him and asked “Alright, you tell me what you need.”

John thought about an inappropriate response and smiled at himself. Outwardly he said, “Your name to start.” She hesitated a moment, then smiled back “Captain Lehey.” John nodded, committing the name to memory. “What other toys do you have here?” She licked her lips, started back towards the door, and signaled with a wave of her head for him to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shamelessly plunked character names from ACD’s cannon; I’m rubbish at thinking them up myself


	2. Chapter 2

John had always been a ladies man. Something about his calm demeanor, gentle manner, the way he _listened_ , his honest eyes…something always attracted the women. His friends hated him for it. Well, not really hated him, but they were jealous, teased him, wished that whatever it was that John had, _it_ , would rub off on them. But of course it didn’t.

Not that John ever had a lot of girlfriends, or boyfriends either. Gender didn’t matter to him. But either way he was not boyfriend material. He was never one for commitment, for long term relationships. First there was school, intense, involved; it took a lot of his time and attention. His parents had died before he entered Uni, so he had to work his way through school. No family to support him, pay his tuition, give him money to spend. No time for a proper relationship while he both worked and attended uni full time. That didn’t mean he didn’t date. Usually one night stands, or a few nights at most.

His residency hadn’t been much different. Long hours on his feet, little time, little money. But he was never alone. Friends, yes. Companionship at night when ever he wanted it, yes. Long term relationships…no, definitely not.

Of course when he enlisted there was no room for a relationships. John actually preferred it that way by now. He didn’t know any other way. He was made to be alone, he decided. He wasn’t interested in a family, a house, none of the domesticity that children dreamt about. Companionship was great, but don’t ask for commitment. He had his fuck buddies, as many in his outfit did. And he thought he was a decent fuck buddy. But that is all he ever would be, all that he ever looked for in the others.

So when John woke up that morning to find Lisa, Captain Lehey, still in bed next to him, he groaned.

John slipped out from beneath the sheets, slid his pants on, then some trousers, and padded into the kitchen. He filled the kettle with water, pulled two mugs from the cabinet, and opened the refrigerator to extract the milk. He could, after all, be civil.

Two hands reached around his chest and hugged him from behind. John froze. The hands gently rubbed his bare chest, and he let out a sigh. “Good morning.” She purred. He turned around and kissed her, taking a moment to enjoy it, but not letting it last long.

“Look, I hate to say this…but I got to get going.” He kissed her again, hoping she would get the hint.

She looked up at him and continued to rub his chest. “Oh…John, do you really have to go…”

He looked down at her, then placed his hands over hers, gently pulling them away from his body. “Yes…I’m sorry. I have to.” Then he dropped her hands, and poured tea, offering her a mug.

She took the mug in both hands, and tried to smile. “Look, John, I know you said you aren’t good at relationships, but, well….I thought maybe you would reconsider.” She looked at him hopefully. John didn’t say anything; he let the silence speak for him. Lisa put the mug down and carried herself back to the bedside, sorting through the clothes there to find her own. She slipped into her panties and bra, then her trousers and shirt, smoothing the wrinkles with her hands. She returned to the kitchen and sipped at the still-hot tea, and smiled at John.

“Call me?” There was a brief silence.

“Sure.” He said, but neither of them was sure if he would. She smiled again, and opened the door, closing it softly behind herself.

**

Any random person walking into the storage-closet-turned-poker-room in the back hallway of the once trendy club would have coughed and gagged from the thick haze of smoke hovering in the air. But the six men who created the brume were quite at home, not surprising since they spent a significant amount of time in the retreat, creating the murky fog, dealing and flipping cards, exchanging winnings and chatter.

The quarters were tight, four chairs around a sturdy square table, and three chairs in the corners of the room. No one was really sure why there was an extra chair, it was rare to have a visitor, in fact, it was more likely that one of the six would be absent, attending to some issue or complication. The single door leading to the refuge usually remained closed, contributing to the unsavory environment.

In their own minds, these six thugs were big players. They weren’t THE big players, but they overestimated their own credentials, and enjoyed the feeling of power that their camaraderie enforced. Although these particular men were more talk than action, they were an accurate representation of minor level criminals in London.

Tiny, the largest man in the room and aptly nicknamed that because of his girth, shuffled the pack, and dealt the cards to the three other men seated at the table and himself. Each man threw some coins into the middle of the table. Picking up his hand, cheap miniature cigar hanging from the corner of his lips, he scowled at his cards. The man across from him grinned, knowing that Tiny would scowl regardless of the cards he saw.

Jabez Wilson, to Tiny’s left, threw two quid into the table. The play continued around in a circle. John Turner, the grinning man across from Tiny, tossed his coins in then started talking. “Heard from Ryder, the guy with the pawn shop across from mine, said his place had been raided…by HM Treasury Supervisors.” More coins clinked.

“How many you want?” Tiny was looking at Wilson. Turner kept talking while the additional cards were dealt. “He was sweatin’, really got the shite scared out of him. I’ll take two.” He looked at Tiny. “Ryder’s not much of a businessman, not too smart, you know.” 

“Shite.” Tiny said, and threw his cards face down on the table. Turner and Wilson chuckled. Wilson threw more coins into the pot.

“Lucky Bastard, they found nothing. Nothing!” Play stopped for a moment while the other men looked at him.

“Thought you said he wasn’t too smart.” Tiny voiced.

“ ‘s not. But he had some guy fix his books not too long ago. Some smart guy. Talked about off shore accounts, and how he could clean his money, and shit like that. I laughed at Ryder when he told me….thought he’d been scammed. But seems like the guy was the goods….Who’s turn is it anyways?”

“Yours” the man to his right said. Turner looked at his cards. “Shite.” He threw his cars to the table. The others roared. “Should have been paying more attention.” Said one of the men in the corners. “Shut up!” Spat Turner.

“Who was this guy?”

“Told you, don’t know.” 

“Call.” 

“Two pair” 

“Shite!”

“Can you find out?” It was Tiny.

“Yeah, sure. Ryder’s been singing his praises. I’m sure he can hook you up.” Turner said.

Wilson collected the cards, shuffled them, and started dealing.

**

Victor Trevor called John to arrange his “evaluation”, and wished him luck. The arrangement was similar to the first time John went to _the facility_ , as he thought of it. John met the car down on the pavement at 8 a.m., and the driver took him to the multi-building facility on the outskirts of London. John was told that he did not need to bring anything with him, that anything he needed would be provided for him.

This time, when the car slowed to park, John was met at the car by a different person. A tall, thin man dressed in a suit, hair slicked back with product, dark rimmed glasses framing his face, an electronic tablet in his grip. “Sergeant Ron Tuson.” He held his hand out to John, and John shook it. “Captain John Watson.” If the people at the facility were going to use rank, John was going to as well.

The man looked down at his tablet, typed something into it, and smiled at John. “Can’t do anything without computers these days.” He said genially. John returned the smile automatically. The man pressed the tablet a few more times then continued. “Looks like we have a full day ahead of us…you’ll start by meeting a few people, then we’ll go onto a written evaluation, then after lunch we’ll get you _doing_ some things.” John had an idea of what was expected; Victor had been pretty thorough in his explanations. “Any question?” John shook his head. He wasn’t concerned. It couldn’t be too much different than what he did in military training. Besides, he still wasn’t convinced that he would take the job if they offered it to him. But the only way he could learn more about the job was to complete the evaluation.

“Okay then, right this way Captain.” The man walked toward the closest office building, John beside him. He pulled his ID out of his pocket and swiped it in the card reader which issued an electronic click, unlocking the door. About ten paces into the building, there was a set of lifts. Sergeant Tuson pressed the button, and they waited until a bell rang and the doors opened. After stepping in, the sergeant swiped his card again, and pressed the number “four”. The doors closed and John felt the lift move.

The doors opened and the two men exited the lift. Tuson turned to the left, and at the second door to the right, one that had a full pane of frosted glass, he knocked. There was a click, indicating the lock was released, and Tuson pushed forward, with John following.

There was a young woman in suit jacket and white blouse with long auburn hair and thin rimmed glasses sitting behind a desk. She smiled at the two men, stood, and stepped forward, revealing a neat knee length skirt that matched her jacket. “Colonel Pollock is expecting you.” She clomped past her desk to a second door, knocked, and without waiting for a reply, turned the doorknob and opened it. “Captain Watson, sir.”

Sergent Tuson stood to the side, allowing John to enter. John paced forward into the second room, stopping in front of an impressive oak desk with a suit clad gray haired man behind it. _A lot of suits around here_ , John thought, as he reached for the proffered hand.

“Sit down, please.” The Colonel said. The door closed behind John. John lowered himself into the padded metal chair and his eyes stayed on the Colonel. Pollock pulled out a manila file folder and placed it on the desk in front of himself. He put a set of reading glasses on, and opened the file. As he paged thru it, he spoke out loud. “Captain Watson… Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers… SRR… a POW… wounded in action… a doctor!?... humm… really… I see…” John was getting a bit annoyed at the perusal through his recent history as if he wasn’t sitting there. Pollock continued paging through the reports mumbling things under his breath.

Finally the Colonel slapped the file folder shut, removed his reading glasses and placed them on his desk, and looked at John. “Well Captain, you have a long day ahead of you. Sergeant Tuson will be taking you around today and answering any questions you have.” Pollock pressed a button on his desk which rang in the office outside of the door. 

The door opened and in stepped the young woman with the brunette hair. “Sir?”

“Yes,” Pollock cleared his throat. “Captain Watson is ready to proceed.” John hesitated for a moment, wondering what the purpose of this little visit was. No questions were asked. No dialog took place. If this was any indication of “their” standard efficiency, John was not impressed. It reminded him a bit of the military, with forms, protocols, reports, red tape, all the things that get in the way of actually getting something done. Breaking out of his thoughts John stood, turned on his heels, and followed the young woman back through to the outer office. Sergeant Tuson was waiting for him at the door to the hallway.

The two men followed the hallway to the lifts, where Tuson pushed the button. As they were waiting, Tuson consulted his electronic tablet and spoke. “You’ll be starting with the intellectual and psychological evaluation with Dr. Trevelyan, you’ll have time for lunch then, followed by…” The lift door opened. The two men stepped into the lift, and Tuson pushed the “three” button. “…physical evaluation and finally the marksmanship evaluation.” The lift moved, then the door opened again.

John followed the Sergeant out of the lift and down the hall to a door marked in black cursive letters with the name Dr. Trevelyan. Tuson gave John a quick nod and smile before knocking on the door. A muffled reply was heard, and Tuson opened the door, indicating to John that he should go in. John was greeted by what he would have graciously called a _mature_ woman, gray hair pulled back in a bun, lines accentuating the expressions of her face, in another suit. Another suit! For just a moment John wondered if he would have to wear a suit, but then he let the thought go. Dr. Trevelyan sat casually in a nicely padded arm chair, and she stood when he entered. She waved her hand towards a sofa, designating where John should sit. _Seriously_? John thought. _A sofa_? It was too cliché, and it almost made him giggle.

“John Watson, _Doctor_ John Watson, is it not?” She didn’t even wait for him to reply. “I’m going to be recording our session here today to help me remember your responses.” She walked to the corner of the room where John had not seen a tripod and flipped a switch on a small camera perched on the top. John knew what she was really looking for were signs of deceit, and that replaying their session would help her to identify subtle signs. She glided back to her chair. “First of all, start by telling me your name.” John looked around the room, slightly startled by the quick and direct start to the session. “John Hamish Watson.” He swallowed forcefully, not knowing where to look, not wanting to stare into the camera.

Dr. Trevelyan fired questions off to John in a seemly endless random fashion. “Are you aware of being afraid or fearful of anything specific?” “When is the first time you realized that you couldn’t trust everyone?” “Two men are walking down a street, one man is….” “Have you experienced or been exposed to a traumatic event?” “The day before the day before yesterday is three days after Saturday. What day is it today?” “What is the worst lie you ever told?” “Do you sometimes drink to make the feared social situations easier to handle?” “What is your earliest memory?” “Do you have difficulty controlling your worries or anxieties?” Even though it felt like John had spent the entire day in that office, it had, in fact, been only 2 hours. When Dr. Trevelyan announced that she asked the last question, John’s brain actually hurt.

Sergeant Tuson was waiting outside the door for John when that first session was over. He took John down to the first floor cafeteria for lunch, and provided light conversation during the meal for which John was grateful. It wasn’t as if the first session had been difficult, it had just been so intense, so personal, so rapid-fire. Lunch gave John a bit of time to unwind and prepare for the afternoon.

**

Sherlock Holmes sat in the stale smelling hazy room, taking a drag on a cigarette. He didn’t smoke often; there were very few public places where smoking was allowed anymore. He was sitting there, dressed in tight fitting jeans and t-shirt, trainers and a zip up hoodie, round glassing partially obscuring this blue gray eyes; he was dressed as, and acting in the manner of his undercover alter ego, Charles Altamont. In front of him was a small table with an ashtray that was almost full of someone else’s ashes. Across the table was the most obscenely obese man that he had seen in a long time.

The portly man had a miniature cigar hanging from his lips, unlit. The contrast of the tiny cigar against his many chins accentuated his corpulence. He was eyeing Sherlock as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say or do. Sherlock leaned back, tilting the chair back on its rear legs, and regarded the man.

“Well,” Sherlock began, “You invited me here…”

Tiny nodded, coming to himself. “Erh, yeah, you did a job for a friend of mine…Ryder…” He looked at Sherlock, his eyes traveling over the man, and he paused again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You want me to do some work for you, but now you’re not sure if you should trust me or not. Your business dealings are not exactly legal, and you need to clean some money.” He sighed. Tiny nodded, a bit taken aback.

“Either you decide to trust me and we get on with it, or stop wasting my time.” Sherlock tilted the chair back onto four legs and started to rise.

Tiny lifted his hands, palms towards Sherlock and motioned him to sit back down. “No… no… you’re right, of course… sit down… please….”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and nodded once. “Good… Can we get to business then?” Tiny nodded.

“Who does your bookkeeping?”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, is that a problem?”

“A problem, no. But it is something we need to take into consideration as we set this up. Auditors always like it better when there are external controls… And how much money are we talking about annually?”

Tiny told him.

“Right. I’ll set the off shore accounts to handle that much volume, and we can adjust things if business picks up.” Sherlock bent over and picked up his lap top from next to him. Opening the top, he started typing. “All right, I’m ready to connect to your network. Then you can let me know where in the network your books are.”

Tiny stared at him. “Umm, my books aren’t computerized. They are on paper.” Sherlock stopped mid-stroke. _How can the police NOT catch these idiots_? He thought to himself. His head rose slowly, looking at Tiny. 

“Is that a problem?” Tiny asked once again, with some hesitancy.

“It could be. It would be much better to computerize everything; we only have to do it once. It’s a lot more work to set up, but in the long terms it will be easier to maintain. Money can be automatically transferred to your different accounts. Otherwise you’ll need me out here regularly to do it. That would cost you.” Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Tiny.

Tiny grimaced and used his finger and thumb to remove the cigar from his mouth. He tapped the cigar several times on the table, unaware of the saliva that now stained the surface. “Okay… but I want to know what it going to cost before we get started.”

“I’ll need to see your books, then I’ll let you know.”

Tiny scowled, but he rose and left, returning a couple of minutes later with several bound ledgers.

**

After the two men finished their lunches, each choosing a different type of wrap, it was time to report for the physical evaluation. Tuson led John out the front door, and over to the warehouse style building that John had practiced shooting in several weeks ago.

Swiping his ID card and leading John in, Tuson pointed to a door behind the counter. “That is a locker room. You’ll find track suits, shoes, socks, and gloves in there for you to change into. Grab a towel as well. When you’re done, come back out here and I’ll take you to the next session.” John entered the locker room and was amazed with the poshness of it. There were shelves of track suits, shorts and jackets in different sizes, trainers, thin grip gloves, caps, flannels and towels. An outer changing area had padded armchairs and end tables. The locker room had generous wooden lockers. John selected the attire that Tuson advised, removed his clothing, which he placed in a locker, and dressed. On his way back out to the sergeant, John grabbed a towel.

Tuson said nothing as he led John into yet another door, which opened into a large open area with a sand floor. It was set up as an obstacle course, similar to basic military training, with A-frames, ropes, barbed wire, and various other obstacles. Tuson picked up a phone right inside the door, and spoke into it. “Tuson here. John Watson ready for evaluation.” Then he hung up. John looked around as they waited for the evaluator.

John was a bit disappointed with the obstacle course. Even though it was timed, he did not find it much of a challenge. The sand floor had more traction than any desert would, and the obstacles could be cleared easily by all but the least physically fit. After the obstacle course, the evaluator had John do timed push-ups, sit-ups and chin-ups. _Why are those always chosen_? John wondered to himself. The evaluation ended with some sparing. John’s opponent kept to fairly basic moves, and John easily matched his moves. Since the evaluator set the pace and skill level, both me pulled their punches and had an easy work out.

Tuson grinned at John after the completion of the second portion of the evaluation, and instructed him to shower and redress. “You made that look like a remedial physical evaluation. Not much of a test for you.” John smiled back, but couldn’t help feeling that the past 2 hours had been a waste of his time. He appreciated a true challenge, not a watered down one.

The final hour was spent in marksmanship evaluation. Tuson walked John to the part of the warehouse that had the targets, where John had practiced just a few weeks earlier. Opening the door, John saw Captain Lisa Lehey was waiting. She smiled and winked at John, who smiled back. “I’m just here for moral support.” She explained. An evaluator arrived a few minutes later, with just two weapons: 9 mm Browning AL9A1, and SA80a2 Assault Rifle. Both were standard issue for military, and John had used each extensively. John decided to have a bit of fun with the final evaluation, and when the evaluator asked him to shoot, John asked him which hand he wanted him to use. The evaluator, recognizing a smart-arse when he saw one, had him shoot with both his dominant hand and his off hand. John didn’t disappoint him, and the two ended the day swapping stories about the weapons that they had shot and were comfortable with, and ‘fish’ stories about their best shots.

It was the end of a long day, and John shook the hand of Sergeant Tuson. “So…what’s next?” John asked. “Someone will give you a call….not sure who, that’s not my department. But I imagine they’ll give you some kind of offer. That is unofficial, of course. Just based on what I saw of your evaluation today.” He grinned at John. John nodded.

**

“So… what is so important that you had to come here to talk. I told you not to come unless it was important, so this better be good”

The weasley looking man was looking at the floor, shuffling his feet slightly before gaining the courage to speak. “Yeah, boss, I know. But…I’ve been hearing some things… some things I thought you’d like to know about…” He continued looking at his feet for several seconds before having the courage to look up. His eyes showed fear.

The tall imposing man, with military hair cut, was staring at the man. The look would have been enough to scare a seasoned veteran. But the weasel had been the recipient of the look before, and found the courage to continue.

“Word is that there is some guy… not much more than a kid really… and he’s been looking for work… says he can make things easier for cash businesses.” He looked at the military man to assure his attention. “He’s one of those smart computer guys… he says he can set up accounts… do some fancy money transfers so the money can’t be traced… makes it all legit.”

The tall man looked thoughtful. “Does this guy have a name?”

The weasley man pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “Yeah, guy called Altamont. Don’t know his first name.”

The military looking man reached his hand out and took the slip of paper, regarding it. “Good. You’ve done good, Barney… Let me know if you hear anything more from this guy.”

**

There were several places that Victor Trevor could have found John. He knew where John lived, and where he went for coffee. But he always looked for John at the gym.

As soon as John entered the front door of the place he worked out, he saw Victor. Victor was leaning against the wall, carefree, as if time were all he had. When he saw John, he pushed back against the wall, straightened himself, and walked towards him. John stopped as his eyes met Victors. He had not seen the man since before his job evaluation. Now he mentally dismissed his work out for the day. Likely Victor was there to talk.

Victor stood in front of him for a moment, and quietly uttered “You want to talk?” John just nodded. He wad wondered if, or when, he would hear back from Victor, and what Victor would have to tell him.

Victor pulled out his mobile, texted a brief message, and started walking towards the door. John followed. The two men went out to the pavement, and a familiar dark 4 door sedan drove up to the kerb. Victor opened the rear door and signaled John to enter, which he did, and closed the door. Walking around to the other side, Victor slipped into the other side. The car pulled away.

John wondered if the driver was the same as the two other times he was driven away in this manner. The interior looked the same, same well maintained look, low wear pattern. But since the patrician to the driver was tinted, he had no way of knowing if the person driving was the same. John looked at Victor and waited. “So John, how did you think things went?”

John chuckled. He thought for a minute on how to answer. The smart arse answer was always on the tip of his tongue, though not appropriate. “Well…I was recorded answering a variety of questions, most of which probably didn’t mean anything.” He paused. “Lunch was good.” He smiled at Victor, who chuckled. “The physical evaluation was…” He struggled to find an appropriate word. “Routine? No, that’s not quite right. Basic maybe.” He looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding to himself, then continued. "The weapons evaluation was also very… basic.” He did not want to insult anyone, but he hadn’t been very impressed with the difficulty of the evaluation.

Victor just nodded his head. “Yes, I could see why you would think that.” John looked expectantly at Victor. Surely he hadn’t brought him into the back of this car to ask him how the evaluation went. It was small talk. Start with the familiar.

Victor looked back at John. “The evaluators were quite impressed with you.” John huffed and waited for more. “As you indicated, there were no problems with your afternoon evaluations.” There was a sharp noise outside that drew their attention briefly, but as nothing more happened, Victor continued. “Dr. Trevelyan, however, always finds the need to identify something to be concerned about.” He smiled wryly. “Trust issues. That is what she said.”

John chuckled. “It doesn’t take a therapist to determine that.” Anyone who had ever met John, all his teachers, instructors, friends, parents of friends, colleagues, CO’s, Chiefs of Staff, they all knew John had trust issues. John himself was the most trustworthy person they knew, but he failed to extend that trust to anyone else.

Victor smiled broadly. “Mr. Holmes actually smiled at that characterization of you. He said it could be an advantage.”

John looked at him questioningly. “Mr. Holmes, I don’t think I met him.” John would have remembered him. Almost everyone he met, no wait, everyone he met either had a title, like doctor, or a rank. He had not met any plain misters.

Victor’s expression became thoughtful. “No, I imagine you didn’t. He’s the top man. Rather a different kind of guy… some of the men call him the ice-man. He is very… intense, extremely intelligent, and impossible to read… But top notch.” He looked out the window, pondering what to say. He did not want to color John’s opinion of the genius. Most people were put off by him. But Victor wasn’t going to go on record saying anything negative against the man.

John interrupted his thoughts. “That is good, then?”

Victor agreed. “That is good.”

“Well then,” Victor continued, “let’s get down to it. How would you like a job with us? We’ll take it easy at first, some short assignments, and go from there.” He looked at John. “It’s a salaried position. Decent pay. Bonus potential. Generous benefits.”

John looked out the window, then turned back to Victor. He still had questions, questions that would have to be definitively answered before he took any job. “Who exactly is ‘us’?” 

“Ahh.” Victor nodded. “I haven’t said that yet, have I?... Well, I imagine you probably figured that out already, but it doesn’t hurt to confirm it now, does it?” He looked at John, as if waiting for a response, but when he didn’t get one, he continued anyways. “Let’s say it is a government position. Exactly what you will tell people will depend on your first assignments, and your official title will likely change. We can get more into the details later.”

John nodded, understanding the implications. _MI5 or MI6_ John thought. Out loud he said “All right then, lets hear some more.”

**

Politico-social galas are an important means of networking and creating allies. Important persons of a variety of parties, businesses, charities, families, and countries all intermingling with food, alcohol and music. One such function was to be the setting of John’s first assignment.

John was not accustomed to socializing with people of the elite class. Fortunately for him, his job provided amenities that allowed him to fit in fairly well, namely new clothes. Victor sent over a new navy suit, light blue button down shirt, a dark maroon and blue tie, and leather dress shoes. John was pleasantly surprised at how well they fit, wondering how on earth they had known his size. _Likely one of those spy things_ , he thought. Looking in the full length mirror in his bedsit, John admired the cut of the suit, trendy but still somewhat classic. Certainly not something he would have been able to afford on his own, well, at least before _this_ job. He removed the jacket and strapped on the shoulder holster that hid his newly issued Browning L9A1, identical to his military issue personal gun that was in the drawer of his bedside table. He didn’t normally use a holster, preferring to tuck a gun into his waistband instead. But the holster worked better with the suit. John checked his gun and magazine, slipped the safety on, holstered the gun and shrugged into his suit coat. He glanced down at his ankle and saw that his knife was not noticeable.

John pulled the ear piece out of the leather case that he had been given, and turned it over, reacquainting himself with it. Victor had gone over its operation when he dropped it off earlier in the day. John put the earpiece back inside the leather case, dropping it on his bed, but he didn’t zip the case shut as he would grab the earpiece before leaving his bedsit.

John looked at his watch. It wasn’t a long walk to the hall where the event was taking place. He would need to be there early to meet with the rest of the security team. He was cautiously excited; he had done stealth security before in the military, but never undercover in civilian clothing. He was thankful that he was not expected to be mingling with the guests. Small talk was not his forte.

John picked up his ear piece and pocketed it, grabbed his keys and left the flat, locking the door as he left.

As he reached the elegant building, he made for the back entrance as Victor had instructed him. Two armed guards were there checking IDs against a list. John handed them his newly issued ID. In fact, he had only received it earlier that same day. They looked him up and down, and nodded him in as they returned the ID.

John found his way to the basement, where the temporary Central Security Intelligence Area had been established. There was a bank of computer monitors showing various camera angles of the party floor, the bar area and the back food preparation area. Off to the side were several other monitors focused on the front entrance and rear doors. Four men were seated before the tables and were typing at laptops or clicking thru camera views. A table was set up with recording and listening equipment, and several blank laptops. There were several other men and women in suits gathering in small groups through out the room, and John surmised that they were other agents.

He pulled his earpiece out of his pocket, powered it on, and inserted it into his ear. It fit surprisingly well, but John was sure it would start tickling him before the evening was over. A small button in his right pocket of his jacket activated the microphone, which was part of the unit. John wondered how well he would be able to hear through the device, and if he would remember to activate the mic before he spoke. 

One of the men who had been seated in front of the bank of monitors stood up. His sharp eyes grazed over the groups of people and landed on John. “Watson?” His voice carried well over the din of the equipment. John assented by holding eye contact and walking towards the man. “John McMurdo.” The man introduced himself, and held his hand out. John took it. “Did Agent Trevor brief you on the assignment?” John nodded once. Slowly, one side of McMurdo’s mouth started to rise. “You’re a man of few words…”

John did not return the smile, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Nothing to say.” McMurdo’s smile widened. He thought that the two of them were going to get along quite well. “Right… Good first assignment… Hopefully nothing exciting will happen…Any questions?” John allowed himself a smile this time and shook his head. McMurdo grinned, then rotated his body to face the room.

“Listen up everyone, we are going to do a mic check.” McMurdo’s right hand slid into his pocket, then back out. Through his earpiece John heard, in a voice hardly over that of a whisper: “Edwards… Douglas… Barker… Allen… Mason… Baldwin… Shafter… Watson.” Each man answered into their mic as McMurdo did the role call.

Through the ear piece John heard some instructions from McMurdo. “Edwards and Mason, I want you to cover the bar area. Baldwin and Barker watch people coming in the front door. Shafter, the back door. Watson, Allen and Douglas, the party area. There have been no credible specific threats, but be vigilant. Watch out for any suspicious behavior, call it in, and do what you need to do to keep everyone safe. We have people down here watching the cameras, and the met outside. They will provide additional backup if we need it. Any questions?.... All right, get going!”

John looked around, wondering which two agents were Allen and Douglas. It didn’t really matter; after all, they weren’t going to be socializing. He followed the rest of the group back up to the first floor. 

The serving crew was starting to wander about with trays of hors d’oeuvres and wine, and a few guests were trickling in. In the corner of the large hall there were 4 chairs and music stands, and 2 women in simple black dresses were pulling instruments out of their cases and shuffling through sheets of music. Two men in dark suits joined the ladies, put their heads together for a minute, then sat in the chairs. The string quartet started playing what John would call classical music, but he thought that there was likely a more accurate description of the music than that. Regardless of what it was, John enjoyed the rich sounds and appreciated the ambiance that it helped to create.

It didn’t take long for the party floor to fill in with men in expensive suits and waistcoats, and women in long dresses and flashy jewelry. John supposed that the women were wearing all the latest designers, but he would have not recognized a designer name if he heard it. The jewelry alone in this gala likely could fund the countries budget for a good part of the year. People were milling about, forming and reforming constantly morphing groups, and near the ensemble, several couples were dancing. The snacks and drinks were well received, and the noise level of the hall was increasing.

There was a brief interruption in the live music, which drew John’s attention to the corner where the quartet sat. The violinist who had been playing for the past hour stood, rested his instrument in its case, and retreated. The other three musicians remained seated while a second violinist approached the group with his violin, but remained standing. He was tall and thin, in a black suit, white shirt, but no tie, dashing with his fair complexion and raven curly hair. John’s breath caught as he watched the man, appreciating his distinct high cheekbones and piercing blue gray eyes.

John was not a musician, but he was certain he had never heard anything more moving or beautiful than what that gorgeous man played. Slowly wandering, and swaying, lost in sounds that his symbiosis with the violin created, the musician appeared to be unaware of anything around him. John was mesmerized by the euphonious movement, and he was certain that he had seen this man before, but he could not remember where. As the first piece concluded, John thought for a moment that their eyes connected, that there was a flash of recognition from the man, but then it was gone, and John realized that it was likely wishful thinking on his part.

John refocused himself. The hardest thing about security details is maintaining the level of concentration that is needed, constantly surveying people’s expressions, their actions, simple gestures, mannerisms, anything that would be a tip off that something is wrong. John was practiced at this, remnants of his many years in the military. He had been able to, in the past, find the one face in hundreds with a nefarious motivate. If you were to ask him exactly what he saw, what he was looking for, he would not be able to tell you. He did not know if it was the expression on someone’s face, or the way their eyes darted about, or the way the person stood, or walked or gestured. But John could always pick out the rebel insurgent in the group, and tonight was no exception.

John’s gaze was scanning the crowd, when suddenly _he knew_. He knew there was something off about the man. He looked like every other man in the room, more or less, moved like every other man, walked like every other man. But John knew he wasn’t like them. He didn’t even have time to key his mic and call for back up. The man’s hand was already coming up, his eyes locked and focused on a target, in his hand a revolver. Four paces separated them; John started forward, took two long strides and flung his body forward, arms stretched out, aiming for the gun that was focused on its victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altamont is from ACD’s “His Last Bow” also known with the subtitles “An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes” and “The War Service of Sherlock Holmes”. Set just before the war in 1914, Sherlock works undercover as Altamont to penetrate a German spy ring. So, of course, I had to use that name when I decided to send Sherlock undercover in modern times.


	3. Chapter 3

John’s feet were off the ground as his hands hit the man’s wrist and the gun, deflecting the trajectory of the muzzle downward. The explosion that propelled the bullet forward sounded, and erupted in Johns ears, causing him to involuntarily clench his eyes shut to void out the blast, the throbbing, the pain of the vibration which likely ruptured his ear drum. In the room screams were heard, someone yelled _get down_ , and chaos erupted. John did not feel himself, even fully stretched out as he was, slam into the ground, first his chest, then his chin and face. The gun had been knocked free of the gunman’s hand and skidded across the floor. In his frustration, the gunman kicked at John’s side. Reflexively, John grabbed the man’s leg and twisted, felling the man like a giant tree. John jumped to his knees, pulling the man’s arms behind his back and upwards, pinning him tightly, drilling his knees in the man’s back.

Screams continued, and suddenly Agents Allen and Douglas were on the man, Allen pulling out handcuffs and slapping them on the gunman. Douglass reached forward on the floor and grabbed the discharged weapon. John’s knees slipped off the man and onto the floor, and he was left grasping for air, the pounding and throbbing in his ear voiding out any other stimuli.

Crouched on the floor, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and one under his elbow to steady him. Very far away, in his ear, he heard a voice, asking, commanding, “Watson! Watson! Are you alright?” He realized it was McMurdo, in his earpiece.

His hand keyed the mic, “… Yeah… fine…” The voice did not sound like his own, distant, barely there, but he knew that was the effects of the close gunshot on his hearing. He tried to stand, but the hands on him were gentle but insistent, pinning him where he was. The throbbing in his ears was abating slightly, his head clearing a bit, and he breathed in and out deeply a few times.

He glanced up. Uniformed officers were rushing about, trying to corral and calm people. Colored lights from pandas were flashing through the windows, many of them, judging by the light patterns. He looked at his elbow, saw the hand on it, and traced the hand and arm to the man who was steadying him. To his surprise, it was the violinist, who was even more strikingly gorgeous close up. His lips were moving, but John still could not hear the words that were being voiced. The man must have recognized the look of confusion, because he smiled and just patted John’s elbow reassuringly.

Next he knew, there was a paramedic by his side, and a chair materialized. The ringing and pain in his ears was waning, and he allowed himself to be guided to the chair. He reached up to his ear, removed the ear piece, and pocketed it, realizing that the earpiece may have spared some of the hearing in that ear.

The paramedic was looking at and feeling John’s face, and John was suddenly aware of the metallic taste in his mouth. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and was rewarded with a swath of blood, the result of his spectacular dive onto the floor. He didn’t think he had broken his nose.

He tried to tell the paramedic that he was fine, and found that he was shouting, so he consented to being pushed back into the chair while the paramedic satisfied himself. He watched the people milling around, giving statements, and the met coordinating activities. Then he saw McMurdo striding towards him, stony faced. 

McMurdo surveyed John from head to foot before allowing the corner of his mouth to raise a fraction. “Good work, Watson.” Watson nodded once, acknowledging the compliment. McMurdo’s expression returned to neutral before he continued. “You’ve caused me a lot of paperwork you know.”

John raised an eyebrow. He found he liked this man. “Yes sir.” The response was automatic.

McMurdo allowed himself a grin. “Report to me when you are done here.” John nodded in assent.

The initial debrief lasted well into the early hours, and John finally collapsed into bed around four a.m. 

John’s alarm woke him at half eight the next morning, interrupting a dreamless sleep. John rolled out of bed and shuffled into the shower, letting the cool water shock his system into alertness. He dressed quickly, grabbed what he needed for the morning meeting, and scampered out the door. The dark sedan was waiting at the kerb, and he quickly crawled in, and promptly fell asleep again during the drive to the facility.

At the facility, John discovered that his ID worked at the front door to the central office building. He found the conference room that McMurdo had indicated, second floor, just above the cafeteria. The banks of computer screens, lap tops and listening devices that had been in the temporary security post last night had been transported to the room in an identical set-up. John recognized McMurdo, and agents Baldwin and Allen, standing off to one side, McMurdo with a mug of something warm in his hand, and John wished he’d stopped at the cafeteria on the way up to do the same. There were several new faces, people who may have been at the events of the night before, but John couldn’t be sure. Seated in front of one of the lap tops were a gray haired tired looking man, who John thought looked vaguely familiar, and the violinist from last night.

John’s attention was immediately drawn to the violinist. Certainly the man was an agent, or somehow connected to the department, he wouldn’t be at the facility otherwise. But the man was an incredibly accomplished musician as well. He could play for any symphony he wanted, at least John thought so. Looking closer, John noticed that the man was still dressed as he had been the evening before, his trousers and shirt still crisp and neat. Had he not gone home? He was speaking to the man besides him, who definitely looked worn; the bags under his eyes evident even from a distance, and a bit of a slope to his shoulder. But the violinist’s eyes were sharp and bright, his gestures brisk and energetic, almost manic.

The musician appeared to sense John’s stare, as he whipped his head around and caught John’s eye. John’s breath hitched, the intensity of the look making his heart skip a beat, drawing his arousal from deep inside. The gray haired man next to the musician turned to see what had captured the violinist’s attention, and a look of slow recognition crossed his face. He rose, a smile beginning to cross his lips, and held out his hand towards John. “Watson?... Doctor Watson is it?” 

John’s mind started racing, trying to remember who the man who recognized him was. John held out his hand. “Em, yes…” 

Realizing John’s confusion, the man helped him out. “DI Lestrade. I’m Special Liaison to the force. We, em, met at the hospital...”

“Ah, yes.” John said, in acknowledgement. He was the inspector who had returned his wallet after he was attacked. Then it hit John, where he knew the violinist from: he had been with Lestrade that same day, at the hospital. He had asked John about Afghanistan, said he left something in the mortuary. Was the violinist with the police then? 

Lestrade was grinning at John, focusing on his face, realization dawning. “I heard one of the new boys took Scanlan down. Why am I not surprised to find out it’s you.” Lestrade chuckled. “Every time I see you your face is turning spectacular shades of color.” John involuntarily lifted a hand to his face, feeling the bruising of his chin and eye, and returned the smile, shrugging with one shoulder.

The violinist’s attention returned to the screen. John’s eye followed, as did Lestrade’s.

On the screen was a view of the party from the evening before. It was inside somewhere, people were milling about, talking, drinking, then the violinist stopped the action on the screen and pointed to someone. “Scanlan” he said to Lestrade. Lestrade nodded. The motion went forward, at first full speed, then it slowed to almost frame by frame view. “He’s talking to this man, here. But I can’t get a good look at him.” A long finger pointed to a nondescript dark suited man in a corner, visible only from behind, who then walked away from the camera angle. The motion on the screen returned to full speed, but the man did not return to the view. The violinist nearly jumped out of his chair in disgust. He threw up his arms, wheeled his chair back a couple of feet and screamed “Ahhhrr! I can’t get a good view of him!” Several nonplussed heads turned.

“Sherlock, calm down.” Lestrade scolded him. John made a mental note of the man’s name, determined not to forget it this time.

“Calm down?! Surely with all the money that Mycroft spends in surveillance equipment, we should be able to get a decent view of this guy! But nothing! NOTHING!” John was fascinated by the passion of the man. “I need facts! One can not theorize without facts!” Sherlock left out an audible huff. “Scanlan is not talking, and we know nothing, nothing about _that man_.” He jabbed his finger at the image of the man as he accentuated the last two words.

John had been watching the screen. “Oh, I don’t know about that…” Sherlock looked sharply at him, then his brows furrowed. “Go back to where the man is walking off screen.” John instructed Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated for just a moment before humoring the man. He queued the screen. “Show the man walking off screen.” Sherlock did so, then looked at John, one eyebrow cocked. “Go back, and do it again.” Sherlock did, but this time, when he looked at John, something was different in Sherlock’s gaze. It was as if he sensed the doctor had noticed something important.

“What is it? What do you see?”

“Once more… slowly.” John instructed. Sherlock did so. “There!...” John’s voice was even quieter than before. 

Lestrade looked confused. “I don’t see anything.” Lestrade confessed.

“Look at the way he walks.” John insisted. “His hips are slightly off balance. When he takes a step, he is uneven. One leg is longer than the other. He has compensated by getting bespoke shoes to make up the difference, but it is still evident in his stride. Can we, I don’t know, track the man by his shoes?” 

Lestrade let out a guffaw, but Sherlock was looking intensely at the screen. Suddenly Sherlock spun around in his chair and his eyes were piercing through John. “You’re brilliant, Dr. Watson!” Lestrade did a double take of Sherlock, evidently surprised by the compliment.

John beamed. “Call me John.” Sherlock continued to stare at John intently, then just as quickly, swung back to the computer screen. “The man is wearing an expensive suit. No less than eight hundred quid. He would not buy cheap shoes with lifts. No, he’d buy the best. There are only a few cobblers around London who would make a shoe like this.” He rattled it off rapid fire. Sherlock pulled a mobile out of his pocked, his thumbs worked furiously, then he slipped the mobile back to its home.

John remembered very little of the rest of the morning. It was spent at the facility in various discussions about the event and what went wrong. But John’s mind was focused on the man who disappeared very shortly after the discovery of the shoes. John was left to wonder who Sherlock was, and in what capacity he was working. He wasn’t part of the regular group of agents, given the way he went off without bothering to check in with the rest of them. No one seemed to pay him much mind, and except for Lestrade, in fact, they all seemed to keep a distance from him. John couldn’t understand that. He was the most fascinating man John had met in a long time. And the most resplendent.

John wondered if Sherlock was married, or had a girlfriend, or boyfriend. He recounted the way Sherlock’s eyes had locked with his and penetrated John’s very soul. His knees could have very well given out at that moment, he had become so taken and enchanted with the man, but his military training saved him, giving him the courage and fortitude to hold the gaze and even return it.

John remembered the way Sherlock had become lost in his music, his fingers dancing over the neck of the violin, his face transformed into a Greek-like image of concentration and perfection. He wondered when he had taken the time to study the man; he had not remembered doing so at the time. He thought he had been watching the crowd, but apparently, as he could recall the image as clearly as if it were still in front of him, he had watched Sherlock quite intently.

**

The Diogenes Club was the oddest club in town. Founded by Mycroft Holmes, who struggled unsuccessfully to find a club where socializing and talking were forbidden, created such a place for himself and others like himself. Membership was by invitation only, and consisted mainly of government dignitaries and employees, although there were a few independently wealthy misanthropes that were members as well.

The Stranger’s Room and Mycroft’s office were the only rooms in the club where talking was allowed, and Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes found themselves in Mycroft’s office. The brothers were more alike than either one of them cared to admit, and as a result, many of their interactions developed into arguments. Today was no exception.

“I don’t need anyone to coddle me. I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.” Sherlock, as immaculately dressed as always, was affronted.

Mycroft sighed loudly. “It’s not a matter of whether or not you are able to take care of yourself. It’s a matter of safety. I can not be watching you every hour of the day, and working alone, in the midst of such unsavory company, is risky.” Mycroft tapped his finger on the desk. Unlike his brother, who preferred to lounge in his own dwelling in a dressing gown and pajama pants, Mycroft was never seen wearing anything but a suit and waistcoat.

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the desk. “You know that I work better on my own.” Sherlock insisted.

“I know no such thing.” Mycroft countered. “I know that you insist on being rude and irritating to everyone around you, you throw insults around freely, and throw tantrums like a petulant child. It’s no wonder that no one _wants_ to work with you.” He glared pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock pursed his lips and continued to pace. “Must we continue to have this argument?” Mycroft did not answer, undoubtedly feeling the answer was apparent. He continued to tap his fingers on the desk. Sherlock stopped his pacing. “Fine…” Mycroft waited for the other shoe to drop. An evil grin began to form on Sherlock’s lips. “Are you going to insist that he live at Baker Street?”

Mycroft did not answer at once. He knew Sherlock’s history with agents placed at Baker Street. Sherlock made sure they never lasted long. But he also knew Sherlock’s propensity to dash off without warning, to work all hours of day and night, and that a live in partner was the only way to keep up with the unpredictability of the workaholic. A partner who was left behind was not going to keep Sherlock safe….although Mycroft knew that any partner was unlikely to keep Sherlock safe.

“Sherlock… this is not negotiable. If you do not get a partner, you will be taken off your assignments. If your partner does not accompany you on cases, you will be taken off your assignments. I will leave it up to you to decide if you can keep a partner by your side if he does not live at Baker Street.” Mycroft hoped that he had made himself clear.

“Or she?” Sherlock pushed.

Mycroft did not rise to the bait. “As you wish Sherlock, but the criteria remain the same. You must make this partner work or you will be taken off your assignments.”

Sherlock’s face fell. He did not look at Mycroft, knowing there would be victorious sneer on it. “Fine… Do I at least get to choose who I like?”

“You have always been able to choose. Do you have someone in mind?”

Sherlock considered. “I want McMurdo’s best man.” He faced Mycroft squarely.

“Must you always be so cryptic, do you have someone specific in mind or must I choose?” Mycroft sounded bored, though Sherlock knew that it was an act he was putting on to appear indifferent.

It was Sherlock’s turn to smile. Mycroft did not know who McMurdo’s best man was. Sherlock loved knowing things that Mycroft didn’t. “Watson, John Watson.”

Mycroft stopped tapping his fingers. He considered, then nodded his head. “Very well. I can see why you picked him… He looked at Sherlock. “As far as John Watson goes, shall I have McMurdo speak with him?”

“No. I will ask him, give him a choice. I don’t want him to be there under orders.” Mycroft’s brows furrowed. That was an answer that Mycroft hadn’t expected out of Sherlock. It was a bit concerning to him. He wondered what Sherlock had up his sleeve.

**

McMurdo had been surprised to hear from Sherlock. He was disappointed, of course, to hear that he may loose John to a long term assignment, but he had always been a decent man, so he didn’t give Sherlock too hard of a time (not that that would have bothered Sherlock anyways). McMurdo wanted to be the one to introduce John to the idea of a new assignment, and to encourage him to consider it. Getting into the good graces with a Holmes was a good career move for John. So McMurdo called John, and gave him information about the assignment, and asked him if he was interested in learning more about it. John was definitely interested.

John wasn’t sure exactly what it was about the very little bit of information he got about the assignment that intrigued him. Maybe it was that he got only a few facts, mystery in the unknown. Or maybe it was that it sounded almost like volunteering for a suicide mission. John wasn’t sure how McMurdo made it sound like a suicide mission, he never mentioned any words like _dangerous_ , or _never coming home_. It was just a feeling John got. John had, after all, volunteered for similar missions. Not suicide missions _per se_ , obviously, but dangerous and potentially lethal missions. Or maybe it was the way McMurdo danced around _who exactly_ the man was, the _younger_ Holmes, as he called him.

McMurdo had once referred to the elder Holmes, Mycroft Holmes. The Iceman, John thought he had called him. It made him sound very severe. That didn’t bother John. He knew many CO’s that were like that. It came with the rank. But McMurdo had been careful to call him Mr. Holmes, John remembered, so he was not a military man. Or at least not current military or an honorably discharged veteran. Perhaps his rank was stripped? No, John didn’t so. Men like that rarely achieved high positions in government. But that was _Mycroft_ Holmes, not the man he was going to meet with.

He had actually met Sherlock Holmes three times. Well, not actually met him, but seen him. And he still knew nothing about the man. Nothing other than he played the violin… and something about a riding crop and a mortuary… and he knew, and maybe worked with the DI that took John’s statement after he was attacked. Other than that, no one spoke of him. But that wasn’t surprising; he was part of a secret government division, after all.

**

John had phoned ahead to get a cab to get him to the meeting, being one who detested being late, and it picked him up on time. Half way to the meeting, however, John heard his phone beep with a text message. It was from a number he did not recognize.

Change in plans. Meet me at the facility room 244 –SH

It took John only a minute to decipher it before he relayed the message to the cabbie about the change in destination. He typed a response, somewhat awkwardly, entered Sherlock as a new contact, and replaced the phone in his pocket.

The change in the destination meant that John arrived quicker than he had anticipated. However, since the cab could not enter beyond the gated entrance, John needed the extra time to walk up the long winding roadway. The cab pulled up to the gate, John handed over some bills. He greeted the gate attendant and handed over his ID card. The attendant opened the gate to the grounds, and John walked up the long drive. The walk was perhaps a quarter of a mile, which didn’t take John long, and he approached the office building. He ran his ID through the card reader at the door, and entered. John climbed the stairs, and followed the numbering system of the rooms down the hall.

The door to 244 was open and John peered in. Sherlock, well dressed as he was every time John saw him, was behind a desk, leaning back in a padded swivel office chair, feet up on desk, pointing at something on a computer monitor. Lestrade was facing him, bum resting on the corner of the desk, one leg dangling, the other on the floor. John stepped in, and Sherlock bounded out of the chair, almost knocking Lestrade backwards onto the desk. “Ahh, good, you’re here!” 

John stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade chuckled, and Sherlock glared at him. “Call me Sherlock.” 

“Right, emm, Sherlock. DI Lestrade.” Lestrade shook the offered hand. 

Sherlock grabbed his coat from a hook by the door. “Come on John, if we hurry we may catch him.” Lestrade just shook his head as they left the office. John wasn’t sure what was going on, but he followed.

Outside, a car that hadn’t been there just a few minutes before, was waiting. John opened the rear door and sat as Sherlock spoke to the driver, then folded himself into the seat. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, thumbed out a text, and ten seconds later got a reply which caused him to hum, satisfied, and pocket the phone. The car pulled away, out the gate, and a few minutes later was pulling to the kerb and stopping. Sherlock murmured something to the driver, and both men got out of the sedan.

There hadn’t been enough time in the car for John to ask any questions, and he was starting to get a bit curious as well as annoyed. He had no idea what they were doing or where they were going, and why. If Sherlock were demonstrating the type of partner he would be, John was starting to wonder if he would accept the assignment. He did not like being left in the dark, and he felt communication between partners was critical. He had been partners with soldiers that were both good and not-so-good partners, (John didn’t like to be overly critical), and he knew the difference.

As if reading his mind, Sherlock started into a monologue. “The observation that you made about Scanlan’s cohort having a limp may prove to be helpful in finding him.” John remembered the limping man on the video screen. “Lestrade’s men couldn’t extract any information from cobblers about a man fitting his description. It was a long shot anyways; the man probably paid in cash. But I was able to use the unusual gait to create a program that would recognize his particular gait in the CCTV coverage. I’ve been modifying the program to get it to work, and finally got a hit today. He was last seen going into that pub, less than twenty minutes ago.” Sherlock pointed down the street with his eyes.

John thought about what Sherlock said, then started thinking aloud, which he rarely did. “How did you manage that? Gait analysis programs are extremely complicated. The analysis would depend on camera angle and height, stride length and speed, surface being contacted, even the shoes that are being worn. That’s amazing!” Sherlock looked at him quickly, then decided it was an honest compliment. He grinned.

The two men entered the pub. There were two things that John noticed immediately. The first was that there were no other patrons in the pub, despite it being lunch time. And the second, that the two employees, a bartender and a security man at the rear exit, both glared, not in a welcoming way, at John and Sherlock as they selected a seat.

John went to the bar, and ordered two pints. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock drank, but they needed cover, and it was pretty clear that food was not served here. The only reason to come to a place like this, besides an illegal one, was to drink.

Spilling a bit as he placed the glasses on the table, John sat across from Sherlock and leaned back deep in the booth, trying to look relaxed. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, typed a few lines, and in a few seconds, nodded in approval. He looked at John, picked up his glass, and took a deep sip. Under his breath, just loud enough for John to hear, he muttered “hasn’t left yet”. John nodded, almost imperceptivity.

They made some small talk but mostly sat in silence. 

It was only about 10 minutes later that a man emerged from the back, and stopped at the bar to have a few words with the man behind it. Then he went quickly to the front door. The bartender had not stopped glaring at John and Sherlock since they entered. Although they did not say so out loud, both men realized that they could not get up and leave; it would be far too obvious that they were following the man, and that would not end well. Sherlock pulled out his mobile again, pretended to look at a message, then typed. An answer came back almost immediately, and Sherlock pursed his lips, anger evident. He sighed, and sat back, taking another sip of his pint. He quickly sent off two more messages, shaking his head quickly in reaction to the reply.

About ten minutes later, an amount of time deemed safe by Sherlock, the two men finished their glasses and went back out to the pavement. They started walking, and after about a block, Sherlock had satisfied himself that they were not being followed. He looked at John and explained. “I texted Lestrade to have him follow Scanlan’s friend on CCTV, but Lestrade had been called out. Then I texted two of my homeless network, but they were unavailable. We’ll have to pick up his trail again when we get another hit on the gait analysis.” John wondered what the homeless network was, but it didn’t seem like an appropriate time to ask.

“We can concentrate the CCTV search in this neighborhood.” Suggested John. Sherlock considered. “Perhaps.” They walked along for about two blocks, during which time Sherlock appeared lost in thought, then suddenly he whipped around, raised a hand, and flagged a cab. “Dinner?”

John smiled. “Starved.”

“I know a great Italian place. Best lasagna in the city.” They crawled into the back of the cab.

**

Angelo’s indeed had wonderful food. John ordered the lasagna, and Sherlock the pasta primavera. Angelo himself served the table, a private spot in a corner, and swooned over Sherlock and John. Angelo rambled on about how Sherlock had saved him from prison, and Sherlock waved off the compliment. Just before the meal was served, for some incomprehensible reason, Angelo rushed over with a bottle of champagne and lit a candle on the table, muttering something about it being romantic. Sherlock appeared not to have heard him.

“We haven’t really had a chance to talk today.” John started the conversation. Sherlock looked at him a bit confused, almost as if saying _of course we’ve talked today_. John seemed to read his mind, and continued, “I mean, McMurdo mentioned that you had some long term assignments, and were looking for… em,… a partner.”

“I was. But you’ve already made up your mind to take it.” Sherlock answered confidently.

John’s brows furrowed, and his head tilted slightly to one side. He had made that decision, but he had said nothing about it to Sherlock, or anyone else for that matter. “What makes you say that?” John asked cautiously.

Sherlock sighed, looked away briefly, then fired, “We had set a meeting, which was changed at the last minute, you were unperturbed by the alteration, in fact I’d say that you welcomed it. Without any explanation, you were willing, even enthusiastic, about running after a suspect you knew nothing about, and despite having trust issues, you have not, until now, asked any questions.” Sherlock looked away, and surveyed the crowd.

John licked his lips and considered. “How do you know that is not just because I was a soldier, used to taking orders?”

“You were a doctor as well as a soldier. You didn’t just mindlessly follow orders. I suspect you gave more than you followed.” Sherlock looked in John’s eyes as he said this.

John couldn’t help but smile. Sherlock was right, of course. John considered himself lucky to be selected to work with this utterly amazing and brilliant man. He couldn’t even come up with the words to express this.

“There is just one thing.” For the first time, John noticed a bit of hesitation in Sherlock’s voice as he said this. “The hours are very… unpredictable. And as such, it would be imperative to have a partner that lived close by. Preferably one willing to share a flat.”

Sherlock knew he could have just stated it as a job requirement. In this line of work orders were given, agents were relocated, settled in substandard or even dangerous housing as part of their cover. 221 could be considered absolutely plush compared to many situations. But Sherlock knew the importance of making this partnership work. If he did not put effort into making it work, Mycroft would take away his assignments. That was not acceptable. However, he may be able to manipulate Mycroft into allowing him to keep his assignments, even if John didn’t work out, if Sherlock put forth some effort.

And even though Sherlock considered psychology to be a ‘soft science’, he also understood that people valued things that they choose more highly than things that were simply given to them. So he was giving John a choice.

In all honesty, Sherlock recognized the soldier mentality. To say that he understood it would not be accurate. But he observed it, and recognized the reliability of the pattern, and knew that soldiers were used to unpredictability, of rapid change, and were used to a certain lack of personal space. It was not likely that John would be put off by having to share a living space. To a military man, two people sharing 221 would be almost palatial.

But Sherlock offered it as an option, a question, and relied on probability, which was on his side.

John appeared to be considering. He realized that Sherlock had been right, John had already made up his mind, even with the required housing. There was no way he was going to turn down this assignment, this opportunity, especially if the alternative was standing around political parties waiting for gunmen to appear.

What intrigued John was why Sherlock appeared nervous. It was inconsistent with what little he knew about the confident self assured man. He wondered if Sherlock had had bad experiences with flat mates previously, or even if Sherlock knew he had a reputation of being a difficult man to get along with (did he have that reputation?). Either way it didn’t matter to John, he liked to make up his own mind about things.

“ ‘s not a problem.” John told him, and Sherlock’s whole body appeared to relax.

“Good.” He replied, and he took a sip of water from his glass. “I’ll let McMurdo know.”

The two men sat in comfortable silence. Angelo came by again, smiling widely, and placing 2 pieces of Tiramisù on the table. John grinned, and dug in, and soon Sherlock followed. Angelo passed by the table again and winked at Sherlock who pretended not to notice.

“The address is 221B Baker Street. Tomorrow at eleven?” John nodded in agreement.

**

The next morning John called ahead to arrange a cab to take him to Baker Street. He strolled outside, and at the kerb was waiting a dark sedan, with a beautiful, young, and shapely brunette standing on the pavement staring intently at her mobile. He thought at first that she may be the cabbie, but dismissed that notion almost at once as she was too well dressed. She looked up from her task. “Doctor Watson?” He nodded, and started toward the auto. The read door opened, and he started to climb in, and then noticed there was already a man inside. “Oh, pardon me, I thought this was my cab.”

“It is your ride Dr. Watson. Please get in.” John backed up a few steps, shocked, unwilling to do as the man said, and he shook his head. The hackles on the back of his neck were standing up. The brunette lowered her hands, and smiled wryly as she watched the exchange. “I assure you, Dr. Watson, it is perfectly safe.” The man continued.

“No thanks, I’ll just wait for the next” John issued, and he stepped a few more paces backwards, keeping his eyes on the man. 

The man took a deep sigh and exhaled loudly. “Captain Watson,” the man tried again.

“How do you know my name?” John asked loudly, a bit rattled. “Who are you?” 

There was a moment of silence. Then the man sighed loudly. “Very well,” the man said. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, now will you please get in.”

“Christ…”

“Language, Dr. Watson.” 

John chuckled sardonically. “ _Sir_ …” He glared at the man in the car, but got in. The brunette crawled in and sat in the rear facing seat, still thumbing her mobile. John felt the car accelerate. John took a moment to survey the man. He was older than John, small close set eyes, sharp features, slightly overweight, dressed in a well fitting smart suit and waistcoat, conservative silk tie, with a long black umbrella resting against his leg.

Mycroft Holmes looked at John. “You don’t seem very scared.”

John huffed and retorted, “You don’t seem very frightening.” 

It was Mycroft’s turn to chuckle. “Believe me, I can be. I’m not a man you want to cross.”

“Is that a threat?” John asked.

“It’s a promise.” There was silence for a minute. “Doctor Watson, my brother is entrusting you with his life. I can tell you quite simply, that there will be consequences if you fail to do so adequately. My brother and I may not always get along, but I can assure you, nothing is more important to me than his safety.” He stared at John, and John did not blink. Mycroft looked at the ceiling briefly, then back at John as he continued. “My brother does not issue his trust to very many people. For some reason, he chose you. If you fail him, or hurt him, you will regret it, if you live that long.” John continued to meet his gaze. He did not scare easily.

The rest of the ride occurred in silence. The sedan pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street and came to a stop. John opened the door. “Good Day, Captain Watson.” John stopped. “Humph” is all that came out of his mouth before he climbed out of the auto and firmly closed the door.

John approached the door, glanced around, then behind himself, satisfying himself that the car was gone. He rung the bell, then heard banging on the stairs, and a muffled sound of someone talking, but he could not hear the words distinctly. The door opened and Sherlock motioned for John to enter.

The foyer was dark and small, with a short hall that led to a door with an ‘A’ on it. There were stairs that lead up, and a set that led down. On the wall was a set of hooks, with a pink fluffy scarf wrapped around the leftmost peg. Sherlock looked at John as if reading his expression, then motioned with his head for John to follow him up the stairs. “Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is at her sisters for the week.” He explained, but it meant little to John.

They made it up the seventeen steps. At the top of the stairs was a door with a ‘B’ on it. Sherlock turned the handle and slid it open, revealing a roomy sitting room, large enough for 2 padded armchairs, a sofa and coffee table, and a desk. There were boxes, and piles of papers and books scattered around the room. On the kitchen table were rows of Petri plates, beakers, tubes and flasks, all with various contents partially filling them, and a microscope sat at the edge of the table. Glancing around, the flat was cluttered, but comfortable appearing. John stepped forward a few paces. “This could be nice…” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Sherlock allowed John a few minutes to familiarize himself with the space before adding “Down the hall there” he pointed down a hall past the kitchen “is the loo and my bedroom. The other bedroom is there.” He pointed to a set of stairs leading up. John nodded. John continued to gaze around, nothing the fireplace, mantle and oversized windows, which framed the activity on Baker Street.

Sherlock felt a vibration in his pocket, and he fished his mobile out of his pocket. Looking at the screen, he rolled his eyes and huffed. “My brother.”

John suddenly remembered that he hadn’t told Sherlock about meeting Mycroft. While the phone continued to buzz John said “Funny that he is calling you now. I just had an interesting ride here with him.” Sherlock looked sharply at John, and then he sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. He pushed him thumb onto the screen.

“My dear brother, what do I owe this most unwelcome distraction to?” Sherlock listened, and as he did so he rolled his eyes again. “Yes, I was just hearing about it… that is none of your business… yes, very well.” And his thumb pushed against the screen again, and he lowered his phone. “What exactly did he say to you?”

“I think he was actually trying to give me the ‘you hurt my brother and I’ll kill you’ speech.”

“No, word for word. What _exactly_ did he say?”

John thought about it, then, as closely as he could remember, he repeated the conversation.

“Nosey prat!” Sherlock exclaimed. John chuckled at this characterization of Mycroft. Sherlock was surprised by John’s reaction. Sherlock had never had anyone laugh at his comments before; everyone far too intimidated by Mycroft, or put off by Sherlock, to do so. He was delighted by John and even joined in the laughter. John intrigued him; he wasn’t like other people Sherlock knew.

Buoyed by the laughter, Sherlock enquired “When are you going to move in?”

Still chuckling John countered “Why, are you going to ask Mycroft to help?” They continued to giggle a bit, then John cleared his throat “Emm, okay, well, I really don’t have much to move. A duffle, some medical texts, my lap top. That is about it. I’m used to moving around and traveling light.” Sherlock nodded his acknowledgement.

Sherlock had a sudden realization. He was enjoying himself. That so rarely happened when he was with anyone, that it frankly surprised him. What was it about John that was different? He would have to ponder that when he had time. Instead, he asked “tea?”

“Mmm.” John said in affirmation. “Milk, no sugar.”

Sherlock put the kettle on, and prepared the tea when the water was warm. He brought a mug to John, and held onto one for himself before sitting down in one of the armchairs. John sat in the other. “Em,” John began, “any cases that I should be brought up to date on?” Sherlock stopped with the mug half way to his lips. Briefing his partner. This was something that he’d have to get used to. He was used to working alone, not having to stop and communicate everything to someone else. How tedious, tedious but necessary, he supposed.

Sherlock had two assignment of importance. He was helping Lestrade with the Scanlan case, of course, but John already knew most of the relevant facts about that. But John did need to be told about the other case. He wondered if he should engage in that conversation now, or wait until John was settled in. He decided that it probably was best to brief John now, just in case they would need to dash off. If he were to give the idea of a partner his full support and effort, as he had promised Mycroft, it would be best to start now.

“There is only one of any note that you don’t already know about, and it’s been percolating for some time now.” Sherlock looked at John and considered for a moment, pondering how to start. “We have been aware, for some time now, of an organizing factor in many crimes, not only nationally, but world wide as well. Some sort of connection, a uniting factor that links them together. There is nothing concrete, no physical building or structure, at least nothing that we can point our fingers at, but it is there.” Sherlock started pacing as he continued his monologue. “There is a central force, likely a single individual, who orchestrates things, sets them in motion. If something needs to be done, all you have to do is contact this man, and he arranges the results. He never gets his own hands dirty, so there is nothing to connect this man to the crimes. If someone is caught, they keep quiet, and spend whatever time in prison that they are awarded. They are well paid for this very reason, and they know that if they keep quiet, they will be taken care of, and have more work when they get released.” Sherlock stopped his pacing and steepled his hands together under his chin. He was silent for a moment. “It is almost impossible to connect crime with this man. We don’t even have a name.”

“If you don’t know who he is, and can’t tie any crimes to him, how do you know he exists?” John asked.

“I deduced him.”

“You deduced him?”

“If you follow the threads of crime, and trace them back to their source, it becomes obvious that he must exist. The unique thing about him is that he in involved in all forms of crime, and in multiple nations. Never before have we, or has anyone else, ever encountered such an all-encompassing “crime boss”, if you will. Drugs, weapons, kidnapping, espionage, murder, human trafficking, right down to the mundane everyday racket of the petty criminal, he handles it all. Nothing is too large or too small. He must be brilliant, a genius, to orchestrate everything.” Sherlock’s eyes were locked on John, willing him to understand. John was silent, his brows furrowed in thoughtful consideration of the problem.

“So… if we can’t name him, or attribute crimes to him, how do we catch him?” Sherlock smiled. He was very pleased that John hadn’t doubted him or his deductions as others had. John took Sherlock’s word for it, and moved onto the logical and practical extension of it.

“That is the crux of the problem. We need a way to draw him out into the open. We need to be able to first identify him. But the also, and just as importantly, we need to be able to prosecute him, to have solid, indisputable evidence supporting his guilt. Something that he can not disprove or host a solid defense against. We will only have one chance at prosecution with out alerting him that we are aware of his presence as the mastermind. And once we do that he likely will disappear.”

“And that is what you are working on?” John wondered how on earth anyone could even start on a project like this; it seemed so overwhelming and impossible.

Sherlock did not answer. He appeared to be thinking. John waited. After about a half of a minute, Sherlock continued.

“There is a man, Charles Altamont, who has considerable abilities, among them computer skills. For a fee he will get your books set up so that money that runs through the business appears to be legitimate, using off shore accounts, money transfers, and other practices. In this way, any illegal money that you have gets converted into non-traceable funds.”

“Money laundering.” John stated simply. Sherlock nodded.

“His business expands by word of mouth. He works mostly with small time operations, and his skills are being tested by audits from the HM Treasury Supervisors, and they have not been able to uncover his participation in the books, nor any illegal activities by the business… Because of that, his reputation is growing, and larger and larger criminal operations are finding his skills useful to them.”

“And you know Charles Altamont?” John asked. Sherlock smiled at him. “Oh, I see… you are Charles Altamont.” Sherlock waited for him to put the rest of the pieces together. “And you are hoping that larger operations will lead you to this criminal mastermind?”

“Precisely.” Sherlock started pacing again.

“And, at any time, the HM Treasury Supervisors could actually, if they wanted to, prosecute any of these businesses, but they don’t because they are cooperating with you.” John added.

“That is true. However, they will find nothing to prosecute, nothing illegal if _I_ set up the accounts.”

“Well you are an arrogant arse.” One corner of John’s lip rose as he said this. Sherlock looked quickly at him, noticed the smile, and chuckled.

“Of course we are cooperating with various agencies, including the HM Treasury, governments, banks, and the like. It is necessary since he operates across national borders. And it does make gaining access to everything much easier. It has saved me a significant amount of time to be allowed access to accounts without having to hack into all of them myself.”

Sherlock took a sip of tea. His mouth had gone dry.

“Mycroft has gained cooperation from The Financial Action Task Force, composed of 36 member nations, and over 13 additional countries, the and is working to secure more cooperation. Several of the largest off shore banks have agreed to let us move money through their banks in exchange for certain concessions. I don’t know the details, but I imagine they include immunity, as well as past and future considerations.”

After a minute, John furrowed his brows and took a deep breath. “It sounds like a long shot, a mission that could fail very easily.”

Sherlock stopped, looked at John, and placing his fingertips together in front of his chin, agreed with him. “Yes, it is. But it is the best we have right now.”

John tapped his right forefinger on his thigh. “It sounds a quite risky. What if they find you out?”

“That is precisely why you are here. The deeper I get undercover, and the bigger the client, the more dangerous it becomes. My skills in technology are well recognized by the department, my self-defense skills less so. My brother insists that I get a partner so that I have some back up.”

“So you have me here as the muscles of the team?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. My brother is just incapable of admitting it.”

“Oh… so if I’m not the muscles of the team, I must be the brains…” Sherlock looked sharply at him. John, however was chuckling, so Sherlock allowed himself a smile, which he half hid by taking another sip of tea.

John became serious again. “So, what do we do now… wait?”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “Business for Mr. Altamont has been picking up. I think we are going to be in high demand soon.”

“Alright, what exactly do you need me to know?”

**

The musicians were setting up their equipment in preparation for their gig that evening. Even though the club wouldn’t open for a few more hours, there were lots of people milling around, moving equipment, doing sound checks, rearranging seating, and generally cleaning up for the evening’s event.

In the back room, the tall man with the military hair cut was waiting, sipping whiskey lazily, pleased at the prize that was sitting next to his boots. It hadn’t been difficult to get the information that was stored in the laptop at his feet. A few well placed threats, a simple bribe, and here he was. He knew how to extract information from people, even sensitive personal or business information that could make or break someone. At his feet was simple proof of that. All the pawn shop’s records, down loaded onto his laptop. All of their accounts, banking information, cash flow… even all the work done by that young know-it-all. All of it was here. This ought to make the boss happy with him, and that was the one thing in the world that he wanted. Sure, he worked for the man, he was his boss. So of course he’d want to please the boss. But the loyalty he held towards the man went much deeper than that. He would do anything for Jim.

In walked the man he was waiting for, well dressed in his bespoke Westwood suit, crisp pressed shirt and silk tie of blood red with small white skulls patterned on it. He was slight in stature and build, but universally feared. The military man stood abruptly when he entered the room.

“Well, did you get it?” Jim Moriarty always got to the point quickly.

Moran bent down, lifted up the laptop that he had set next to his chair, and handed it over. “Everything he did is on this computer.” 

“Everything?” 

“All the codes, accounts, everything.” Moran confirmed.

Moriarty smiled. “It better be…” He reached for the computer and slipped it under his arm. “I want to see what all the fuss is about. Surely what this Altamont person is doing can’t be that complicated…” He looked again at Moran. “My money is on him being just another con man… nothing but your average irksome trickster trying to move in on my territory… I’m very possessive of my things Sebastian, as you know… it would be _such a shame_ if a little mouse found its way into our cattery. I just might have to let you loose on him then.” He allowed a small but sinister smile to cross his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

John returned to his bedsit late that afternoon and packed the few possessions that he had, which fit into his duffle bag, a cardboard box and a rucksack. He returned to Baker Street in a cab, and had to wait on the doorstep for Sherlock to rumble down the stairs and let him in. After opening the door, without even thinking about it, Sherlock ran back up the stairs, leaving John to heave his three packages up the stairs by himself.

John dropped his duffle bag on the floor as he stepped in the door into 221B. Sherlock was focusing the microscope, his eyes glued to the eyepiece as he surveyed the results of his latest experiment. John watched him for a few seconds, curious as to what could be holding the man’s attention, but decided against asking. Instead, he carried his things up the second set of stairs to the empty room on the third floor.

It took about twenty five minutes for John to unpack, hang up his clothes in the wardrobe, and shelf his medical texts and journals. He returned to the sitting room, where Sherlock was in the same pose as he was when John arrived. John glanced about, saw the remote control for the telly, and turned it on.

Flipping through the channels, John found nothing of interest. Suddenly aware of a pang in his stomach, John enquired, “Dinner?”

Sherlock glanced up, looked over at John and replied. “No… thank you… I don’t eat when I’m in the middle of an experiment.”

John was a bit puzzled, but quipped back, “No, I’d expect not. Wouldn’t be proper.” John hid his grin as Sherlock hummed in response.

“Well, em, I’m going to go out and find something to eat. Call me if you need me, I’ll have my phone.” Sherlock hummed again, which John took as an affirmative reply. As he was about to leave, John asked, “Oh, do you have a spare key?”

“On the mantle, next to the skull.” John hesitated, uncertain if Sherlock was making a joke or not. Since Sherlock did not laugh, and continued to stare thru the microscope oculars, John wandered to the mantle, found the skull, and sure enough, there was a key next to it. John just shook his head, uncertain what to make of his new flat mate.

**

John found The Globe, a pub and eatery, just a few blocks from 221B. He ordered the Fish and Chips, which had been recommended to him, and a glass of lager. As he sipped on his lager, a buxom brunette, about his age, or maybe a few years older than he was, caught his eye and winked at him from across the room. John almost turned around and looked behind himself, as he did not know the woman, and wasn’t sure if she was flirting with him or someone else. She stood up, lifted her glass, and sauntered towards him, swinging her hips provocatively.

She stood besides his table, and licked her lips slowly, then asked if he minded if she sat down. John waved a hand towards an empty chair. He looked at her. She was a bit older than he was, well put together, a bit too much makeup, but pretty enough. Her ring finger was bare, but there was a slight indentation where a ring had been. She twirled a finger through of lock of her hair, and it almost seemed as if she were batting her eyelashes at him. She couldn’t have been more obvious if she held a sign.

“Hi” John said lamely, then he wondered how we have ever been labeled as a ladies man with conversation like this.

The woman smiled at him and answered in a deep throaty smoker’s voice. “I would have asked you if you came here often, but I know I’ve never seen you here before. I’d have remembered you.” It had been a while since anyone came onto John this strongly. It almost made him chuckle. It certainly was doing wonders for his ego.

“No, never been here before.” He smiled back.

She lifted up her glass to her lips and tipped it, emptying it and licking the rim of her glass suggestively. “Buy me a drink?” She asked.

John lifted a finger to the bartender and said “Another drink for the lady.” The man nodded at him and started mixing. She continued to smile at John, probably already a little pissed if the haze in her eyes was any indication.

The bartender brought the drink over and placed it in front of the lady, grinning knowingly at John, but resisting the urge to wink at him. They sat together in silence for a minute. Then she took a drink and asked “Would you like me to show you around here? I know some nice cozy corners.” She drew out the last two words. John was not going to turn down a quick shag, even if she wasn’t exactly his type, so he smiled in affirmation, taking a gulp of his beer before standing up.

She took his hand in hers, and rubbed at his palm with her finger. That simple movement aroused him more than it should have. He licked his lips hungrily, and she led him towards the back of the room. She took him down a hallway which he thought might have been for employees only, even though it wasn’t marked as such, and opened a door at the end of the hall on the left. It was a small supply closet. She closed the door behind them, and there was sliver of light that trespassed into the darkness at the top and bottom of the door, just enough to be able to see, once his eyes adjusted.

The brunette placed her hands on John’s chest, and started rubbing up and down, then wrapping her hands around his shoulders and neck. She appreciated the well formed and toned muscles. Her lips found his, and she started kissing him with urgency, her hips starting to move up and down against his. John was half hard already, and his hands worked their way under her sweater, and he found her breasts, pulling at her bra until it unclasped. A beep came from John’s pocket and he swore.

Pulling back from her kiss, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. A text message read:

Where are you –SH

“Christ…“ John looked at the words for a minute and wondered if he needed to return to the flat for a case. He quickly texted back:

Why –JW

John waited about 20 seconds for a reply before pocketing the phone. Sherlock could not have worse timing. He felt her hands working at the button on his jeans, then his zipper, and he groaned. The brunette’s hands were on him, teasing him to hardness. He reached down and placed his hands on the outside of both of her legs and he pulled up her skirt, rubbing against her wet spot through her panties. She pushed into his hands with her whole body, and she grazed her palms over his tip. John moaned and suddenly asked “Do you have any condoms?”

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a packet, handing it over to John. His hands were shaking as he tore the packet open, and placed it on himself. Her hands were back on him, one hand running a finger over his shaft, the other wrapping around his back, pulling him closer. John reached for her panties, and pulled them down to her thighs. She stepped out of them with one leg, and wrapped that leg around his waist, rutting against him.

John inserted two fingers, then three into her, and slowly worked into her. She was well lubricated, and moved her hips to the motion. Her groans went right to his groin. He knew he wasn’t going to last, so he entered her and pumped only 4 or 5 times before he felt his body release. He groaned loudly as he spasmed, and she pumped against him several more times then groaned as well, trying to pull him even closer as her body wound down. John was a bit embarrassed that he hadn’t lasted very long, but she didn’t seems to mind. He reached down, grasped the condom, pulled it off, and tied a knot on the end. He looked around, and fortunately, found a bin. He didn’t want to be walking around with a used condom. She stepped back into her panties, and he zipped up and buttoned his trousers. She rubbed at his mouth with her finger, wiping away some lipstick and smiling before reaching for the doorknob.

John was in a bit of a haze, but he followed her out of the closet and back down the hall. She walked back into the main room, picked up her drink, smiled at John while lifting her glass, and left.

John staggered back to his table, and flopped down heavily. He looked at his lager, then slowly sipped at it. The bar man came over with his fish and chips and grinned at him. John felt his face redden, and he found he could not look the man in the eyes. He ate dinner, pleased that he had followed the dinner recommendation given to him, and enjoyed every morsel. As the bar man collected the dinnerware, John ordered another lager, and watched a cricket match on the telly in the corner of the room. Finally he decided he should return to the flat.

**

Sherlock was still at the kitchen table, looking through the microscope, when John returned to the sitting room at 221B. Sherlock gazed at John as if he could read everything that had happened at the pub. John felt himself blush, aided by the slight buzz he still felt from the lager. 

Sherlock frowned, and returned his attention to the microscope. “Did you enjoy your… evening?” Sherlock smiled wryly.

“Shut up.” John muttered. 

Sherlock chuckled. “What, you didn’t enjoy shagging?”

“Of course I did. I just don’t enjoy you knowing all about it.”

“Then you shouldn’t come home with lipstick all over your face.”

“Damn it.” John rubbed at his face with the back of his hand, then went to the sink to wash it off.

Sherlock continued on. “I have an update. Mycroft was able to identify the limping man in the video… name of Woodley. No criminal history, and nothing significant known about him, an apparent dead end. He’ll keep us informed if anything new comes up… And Lestrade stopped by with some cold case files for us to review.” Sherlock said, loud enough for John to hear.

“Mmm” came John’s response, as he walked by with a wet flannel, wiping his face. “Have you looked at them yet?”

“Dull… I asked Lestrade to e-mail me updated contact information for some of the witnesses and suspects. I’ve solved them, but I want confirmation.”

John just looked at Sherlock. He had solved the cases, just by reading the files? John wondered if Sherlock was for real, or if he was exaggerating his abilities and results just to impress him. He didn’t think Lestrade was an idiot incapable of solving a crime. He would have never made it to DI, much less as liaison to MI6 if that were the case. So John had to conclude that Lestrade would only send challenging cases to Sherlock. Was Sherlock really as brilliant as he was leading John to believe? 

Sherlock continued. “Tomorrow we’ll go interview the suspects, unless something more interesting comes up.” Sherlock switched samples and looked back into the microscopes oculars. 

**

Sherlock and John did not work on the cold cases the next day. Sherlock, alias Altamont, got a call on his dedicated phone requesting some “bookwork”. He had been getting more enquires lately, and he was now doing about one job a week.

The latest business wanting some “help” was a pub in the center of London. Sherlock made it a point not to ask a lot of questions up front, especially on the phone; he found that people tended to give a lot of misinformation about their own business, either under or over estimating its success. Sherlock would find out more about the business just by working with the books. 

This was the first money laundering job that John was joining Sherlock on. They had decided with Mycroft that it was best if John did not have an alias. His cover would be exactly what he was: a wounded war veteran doing some personal security work. The simpler things were the less likely mistakes were made. It had nothing at all to do with intelligence or ability. But the best lies were those with some truth in them. It was perfectly conceivable that a wounded war veteran would take up such a job. He could be as cynical and disgruntled with the government and the world as he pleased and it would fit his cover.

It was also decided that John would take his gun when they went on money laundering jobs. Sherlock had never carried a gun; his mind was his greatest weapon. But he had noticed that about half of the businesses that he worked for had frisked him, looking for a weapon. It was easy enough to admit to John carrying a gun, and give it up if asked, but if they weren’t asked, they weren’t going to volunteer it. John felt safer with it.

So it was no surprise that morning when the first question posed to Sherlock and John was if they were packing. John indicated he was, pulled the gun out of the waistband of his jeans, clicked the safety on, and placed it on the bar top. The man, who introduced himself as Gavin, examined the gun enviously, and slipped it into his pocket. “We’ll want that back when we leave.” Sherlock reminded him, looking him firmly in the eyes as he did so.

Gavin smiled insincerely and responded “You’ll get it back… don’t worry.”

Gavin led them through a door into the back area of the pub and into a small room with a desk and computer, a sofa along the wall and some bookshelves, an office of sorts. He typed on the keyboard when the screen prompted him for a password, and John noticed that it was about five characters long; not very secure for a business. Sherlock asked some questions about the business, the approximate weekly gross income and expenses, and some other basic accounting figures, and Gavin was able to answer all of them. Gavin left them to work, and Sherlock turned his attention to the computer.

John glanced around the room, noted a security camera with a wide angle lens in front of the desk, and continued his casual glance around. He sat down on the sofa, settled back, and crossed his arms. After about fifteen minutes, he voiced “Altamont, I gotta take a piss.” Sherlock nodded, acknowledging the code for John looking around the place to find exits and security cameras. It was always important to know in potentially volatile situations, especially when ones weapons had been confiscated. If John were discovered looking around, he’d stick to his alibi of looking for the toilet.

John ambled about, noted the security system, which was outdated and simple at best, and the rear exit. Then he found the toilet which he used to complete his cover. After spending a few minutes in the gents, he returned to the office.

John sat on the sofa for a couple of hours, eyes and ears alert,listening for any strange sounds or indications of trouble, although he didn’t have his gun. Needing to stretch his legs, he came up behind Sherlock and peered over his shoulder, noting that Sherlock appeared to be just about done, as far as John could tell. Sherlock had walked John through the operation so he’d have an idea about what was going on, but John would have been unable to do the work himself.

After another 30 minutes, Sherlock indicated to John that they were done, and John went to look for Gavin. Gavin was hovering in the rear hallway, close at hand, as if he were watching, which he likely was to some degree, although he wouldn’t have had any idea of what Sherlock was doing even if Sherlock explained it in detail. “I’ll give your boss a call and let him know what we’ve done.” Sherlock told Gavin, who nodded, his arms crossed across his chest. Gavin walked them to the front of the pub, and watched them, looking at the front door, mentally showing them the way out.

John frowned. “My gun?” He placed his hand out, palm up. Gavin smiled, chuckled as if he had forgotten all about the weapon, and pulled the gun out of his waistband, slapping it into John’s palm. The two men left out the front door.

**

John really didn’t have any preconceived notions of what working on cold cases and interviewing witnesses would entail, but he was pretty disappointed when he found himself on a toll road with DI Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes for 4 hours on the way to Devon. It had started out calmly enough, with Sherlock explaining, in painful detail, the results of his most recent experiment, involving how blood stains degraded in the presence of certain compounds. Sherlock had pretty much gone off on a monologue, not even looking at John or Lestrade, and not noticing that neither one was paining him any mind, until he asked them a question, and it was painfully obvious that neither one had been listening.

Sherlock exploded and sulked after that, and there was (thankfully) silence in the car for an hour or so, until John couldn’t stand it any longer, and he engaged Lestrade in a discussion about the upcoming rugby match, which turned into tales about from each of them about their prowess on the field when they were younger.

As they closed in on their destination, Sherlock interrupted their shared reverie. “You brought along everything I asked you to?” He asked, aimed at Lestrade. Lestrade shot him a look that said he knew how to follow instructions, and Sherlock returned to his silence. John, however, was interested to find out more than the case files told.

The case seemed straight forward enough. A kidnapping of a small girl thirty years ago. Young couple, devoted to each other and the girl, or so it seemed. They were investigated, suspected of having done the crime themselves, of course, but eventually they had been cleared. They continued to maintain their innocence. Five years later, as their marriage was falling apart, their lives ended in murder suicide, the husband strangling his wife before hanging himself. The child was never found.

There were leads, but none ever panned out. The child had been taken right out of her bed, during the night. The neighbors were all interviewed, but no one saw or heard anything. There was no evidence of a break-in. No strangers had been seen in the neighborhood. Nothing else was taken from the house. Such were the notes from the case file.

“So, Greg,” John said to Lestrade. “What made you pick out this particular case? I mean, the kidnapping happened almost thirty years ago. There must be other cases that are more recent.”

Lestrade smiled at him. “Most of it,” he confided, “is finding something interesting enough to temp someone into looking into it. If there isn’t something unique about the case, all I hear is ‘dull’, and he won’t do anything.”

“I’m right here. You shouldn’t talk about me as if I can’t hear you.” Sherlock reminded them. Lestrade winked at John.

“With some people,” Lestrade started to grin, warming to his theme, “I could pick out a case with a pretty girl, and that would be enough to ignite some interest. Take you, for example, I bet that would work.”

John chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I’d rise to the bait of the damsel in distress.” John agreed.

“But for Mr. ‘I’m a high functioning sociopath’, I have to find some other interesting detail.”

“Wait… a high functioning sociopath?” John queried, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two men.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock confirmed grudgingly, though he did not turn to look at him.

John thought about this. He was a doctor, but he would not feel comfortable making such a diagnosis. “According to who?”

“Many… professionals.” Sherlock said it with disdain. “Of the different diagnosis, it seemed the most… appropriate.”

John knew, despite the small amount of time that he spent with Sherlock, that it was not accurate. Socially awkward, rude, thoughtless, yes, but not pathologically. He let it pass, but he wondered what the _other_ diagnoses had been. It’s something he’d have to peruse later; he didn’t want to get side tracked from the case at hand.

“So,” John continued, to cover the pregnant pause in conversation, “thirty years cold is enough to catch your attention?” He was doubtful.

“Thirty years, no. But it does have some… interesting points to it.” John waited to see if Sherlock was going to elaborate on his comment. When he didn’t, John looked at Lestrade who just smiled back and shrugged. John wondered if he should push the point and try to elicit more information from Sherlock or let it drop.

Fortunately, the awkward silence was interrupted by the sudden slowing of the car as Greg prepared for the final turn to their destination.

**

The young woman that they were talking with could be summed up with the most mundane of words, “nice”. Molly Winthrop, devoid of makeup, with her long mousy hair pulled back in a plait, tan skirt, white button down blouse, and red and brown patterned cardigan half buttoned up, was quiet, well spoken, and pleasant. And she was quite obviously taken with Sherlock, given her wide eyes and stumbling speech.

“Miss Winthrop, how long have you lived in Devon? Sherlock started his questions, by passing all pleasantries.

She looked at him. “Um… I don’t remember when we lived in London. We… we moved here when I was just a year… a year or two old.”

“How long have your parents been dead?”

John cringed. “Sherlock…”

“What?” The he whispered, “Not good?”

John agreed, “a bit not good.”

“No, it’s fine…really.” Molly interjected. “Really, it’s fine. It’s been almost six years since…since the accident.” Her attention stayed on Sherlock, but her eyes could not maintain contact with his; they kept darting off his face.

“See John, she said it was alright.” John put a thumb and forefinger on his temples and rubbed. “Did your parents ever talk about the next door neighbors in London, or the kidnapping? Sherlock continued.

“What kidnapping?” Molly asked, clearly surprised, now looking back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade.

“There was a kidnapping of the baby next door to where you lived, shortly before you moved.” Lestrade explained softly, hoping to calm her.

Molly’s face was horrified. “No, my parents never told me about that. They didn’t talk about London at all… And I was so small… I was too small to remember anything… but I’m sure I’d have remembered that… but they never mentioned it… “

Lestrade reached out a hand and placed it on her forearm. “It’s okay Miss Winthrop. We don’t expect you to remember anything.” His face was calm and kind. She looked at him gratefully and smiled, visibly relaxing. Lestrade looked at Sherlock. “Look, I humor you, the way you like to investigate and how you make your dramatic big reveal, but is there a point to this? Miss Winthrop was obviously not involved in this.”

Sherlock huffed, rolled his eyes, and threw the file folder down onto the sofa. “Surely even you lot should be able to clear this up. Have you _looked_ at the case?”

Lestrade’s face began to redden, and he was fighting to maintain his temper. “Of course I have _looked_ at the case. Don’t take me for an idiot.” 

Sherlock almost snorted. “Please, DI Lestrade, _look_ at the file _again_.” He emphasized.

Lestrade took a deep breathe, removed his hand from Molly’s arm, and grabbed the file off the sofa. He glared at Sherlock, then opened the file, paging through the notes and pictures. Then he froze. “Jesus…”

John strode to his side, looked at what Lestrade was eying, and his mouth dropped open. Sherlock could not contain his smile. He loved to reveal how idiotic everyone else was compared to himself. Molly started to get worried, wondering what everyone was looking at, what they knew that she didn’t.

Lestrade removed a single picture, and put the rest of the file folder on the table. Turning the picture over, he saw the caption “Frank and Ester Hooper”. He looked at Molly as a silent conversation took place in his head, then, having made a decision, he handed the picture to Molly. She looked at the picture, turned it over and read the caption, then turned the picture back again, gaping at it. The mousy girl looked up, open mouthed at Lestrade, her eyes getting wide as realization hit her.

In the picture were a man and woman, arms around each other fondly, in front of a small house, presumably in London. The man was tall and gangly, in his thirties, with curly short blond hair and a thin mustache. The woman was the splitting image of Molly, as she appeared now. But the picture was obviously about 30 years old, given the style of the hair and dress.

“Christ…” Lestrade repeated. “The Hoopers, the parents of the kidnapped girl. That would mean…” He let the sentence hang.

“That would mean,” Molly continued, “that the kidnapped girl is ME…” She looked in a state of shock. Slowly, her legs began to give out, and Greg grabbed her forearm, and guided her to the sofa. He sat next to her, and kept his hand on her arm. Greg looked up at Sherlock, with a look that said _why do you always have to be so dramatic_?

As if answering, Sherlock spoke, “Both the Winthrops and the Hoopers had girls around the same age. The Winthrop girl must have died, or come to some similar end, and they kidnapped you to replace her. That is why you and the Winthrops moved away shortly afterward the kidnapping, and why they never spoke of it to you.” Everyone was silent for a minute, absorbing the information.

Molly was stammering, making sounds, but nothing articulate came out for a minute. “No. No, that’s not right…. That would mean… 

Sherlock interrupted, and John wasn’t even sure if Sherlock knew that Molly had been talking. “All that leaves is the proof. Lestrade, did you bring the DNA kit like I instructed?”

“Of course.” Greg said. “But, can you just leave it for a while. Let the poor girl adjust a bit before… “ 

“No,” said Molly. I’d rather know. As soon as I can. And, if it’s true… I’d like to meet them. I’d like to meet…” She couldn’t finish the end of her sentence.

Greg looked at John, silently asking him to get the DNA kit. John rose, went out to the car, and retrieved the kit from the boot. Returning, he placed the kit down on the table. “I can get the sample, if you like.”

“No,” Said Molly, coming to her self somewhat. “I can do it. Cheek swab right? I do them all the time- I’m a pathologist.” John and Greg both hummed their appreciation, but no one moved. It was an awkward moment.

Then Sherlock moved, opened the DNA kit and removed the swab. He walked over to Greg, and handed him the swab. “We will be able to compare the sample to the archived sample of the Hoopers.” Sherlock reminded Greg. Greg was suddenly very uncomfortable; he could kick himself for not remembering…

“Archived samples?” Molly enquired.

Lestrade looked to the floor. “I’m sorry Molly… The Hoopers died 25 years ago. They… well, they were having a hard time… with everything that had happened… They couldn’t accept that their girl… you, were gone… I’m so sorry.” 

Molly looked at him for a bit. Then she shrugged her shoulders. After a few moments she said, “ ‘s okay. I never knew them. It’s hard to mourn someone you never knew.” She tried to smile, but it looked a bit forced, and there was a tear at the corner of her eye that was threatening to cascade down. “And I think I’m capable of doing my own cheek swab. Pathologist, remember?” She reached out her hand to Greg.

Lestrade smiled at her. “You know, you’re remarkable.” John looked from Lestrade to Molly, then back to Lestrade.

“Sherlock, let’s head outside. I think we should look around a bit.”

Sherlock looked at John, his brow furrowed. “Why do we need to look around outside?” He asked quietly. John just muttered, “Come on…”

The two men went out side, leaving Lestrade to talk with Molly alone. Sherlock repeated, “Why did we have to come out here?”

John sighed. “Molly is a bit upset, and I thought it best if Lestrade talked with her alone. She needs a bit of time to adjust to this information, and it may be best if there weren’t a lot of people around.” He didn’t say that Sherlock was often too blunt, insensitive and rude. 

Sherlock appeared to be thinking about this. “And what?” Sherlock prompted. He always knew when someone was holding back information.

“And… I think he fanciers her.”

Sherlock stopped, turned, and looked at John. “And why is that relevant?”

John stared at him, exasperated. “It often helps during difficult times to have someone there who cares…“ Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Sherlock, have you ever been in a relationship… girlfriend, boyfriend, anything?”

“Not really my area…”

“Oh!...” John wasn’t quite sure what to say after that. But he was curious. How could a man in his thirties, a brilliant, handsome, utterly captivating man, not be over run by relationships? How could he make it this far in life, when he was obviously so magnetic, so charismatic?

“Sherlock, do you mean that you have never… err… you have never… err…”

Sherlock exhaled loudly. “John, of course I’ve had sex, don’t be ridiculous. But I’ve never been one for… relationships. They are messy, illogical... they require effort… sentiment… time.” Sherlock thought a minute. “You’ve met me, worked with me a little, seen how other people react to me. Do you really think people are lining up to get to know me better, to have a _relationship_ with me?”

John was looking at him. They were face to face, very close, only a few inches between their faces. John was imaging how lonely Sherlock must be, an existence without friends, relationships, without sentiment. Their eyes were locked, as if Sherlock was trying to convey his thoughts directly to John’s mind through his eyes. And John was trying to read Sherlock’s thoughts, wondering if someone really could exist without relationships.

Then it happened. John, looking up, slowly rose on his toes. Sherlock’s eyes were locked on his, and, as if a magnet were slowly pulling at them, they moved together, and exchanged a single chaste kiss, soft, gentle, barely touching, but full of passion and sentiment and emotion none the less. John closed his eyes, and he felt as if he were in a dream, floating on the endorphins of a single kiss.

Then, as if choreographed, they both stepped back half a step, and diverted their glances, each more than a little concerned about the implications of what just happened. They both knew it was a small gesture, not even a proper kiss, but it could be the start of an uncontrollable cascade which could either be wonderfully blissful or a complete disaster. John was saying to himself _god, I can’t believe I just did that_. And Sherlock was saying _All John has to do is talk about sex and I start to kiss him_.

**

The ride home was four hours of Lestrade cheerfully talking about Molly Winthrop. Greg had taken advantage of John and Sherlock disappearance to get to know Molly a bit better. He made small talk with her while she started to adjust to the sudden and unexpected news. In the car Greg babbled on about how he wanted her to move to London, how beautiful she was, how, as a pathologist, she understood about an inspector’s job, and every related topic he could think of. Sherlock smirked, and made several comments about Greg’s ex-wife, and his track record with women. But Greg, buoyed by his attraction to the young doctor, ignored all such comments.

John and Sherlock, on the other hand, looked out of their respective windows, trying not to catch each other’s eye, not knowing what to say. John replayed the conversation and the kiss over and over in his mind. He hadn’t meant for that to happen. He had seen mates in the army who had crossed the line with each other, and their friendships were never the same again. That is what concerned him most. He had a good thing going, a new partnership in a new job, one that he actually liked, and now he has done something stupid that might jeopardize everything. As he replayed the kiss in his mind, he came to the conclusion that Sherlock must have reciprocated, bent down, must have leaned into the kiss or it never could have happened. John would have never been able to reach Sherlock’s lips. But he also realized that Sherlock, though he returned the kiss, did not inject into it any invitation to extend it, did not wrap his arms around John, or tease John’s lips with his tongue, or even return the sentiment with a small peck of his own.

Sherlock looked at John in the reflection of the window trying to read his expressions and thoughts. He was surprised by John’s kiss. He had been fascinated and intrigued by John from the day they met, when Sherlock learned that those hands that fought back his attackers, those hands that could hurt someone so much, were also the hands of a healer. He had seen John stop a gunman single handedly, and notice a limp in a man that he had missed, and accept any scenario that Sherlock had thrown at him without hesitation. John constantly surprised him, did things Sherlock did not expect, and most surprisingly of all, actually seemed to like Sherlock. As John’s lips came towards his, he fought hard not to appear too eager. He wanted to close his eyes and melt into John’s kiss, to fall into his arms, to pull him closer until their two bodies became one. He thought about doing all those things, but he didn’t want to scare John off. John was the first person Sherlock had any interest in getting to know better, spending more time with, who interested him at all, since… well, in a very long time. And he didn’t want to ruin that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you missed it, this is a M/M relationship story. Warning to stop here if you don’t want to read about M/M. For those of you reading because it is a Sherlock/John story, FINALLY…
> 
> Also a trigger warning for drug use. If it bothers you, don’t read.

“We brought along the picture of the man I told you about; the one who has been setting up books to clean the money.” The man placed the computer printed picture of a dark haired pale man, with small round glasses and a cap in front of a lap top, with a sandy haired somewhat older man peering over his shoulder, on the table. Jim reached forward, picked up the paper, and studied it.

“Trying to move into my business, not too smart of him.” The slight man said, in a sing song voice. The other 2 men looked at him.

“Yeah,” continued the first man. “The thing is, I know the guy, that one.” He pointed at the pale man. “I think that guy used to buy from me. Well, not from me, from one of my lads. A good customer, always had money. Except that one time he didn’t, but we took care of that, taught him a lesson, and he learned from it. Always paid after that. Pretty regular until a few years ago, then he must have cleaned up. Cause he looks clean, and I haven’t seen him since then, so I don’t think he’s buying elsewhere.”

Jim picked up the picture and studied the men’s faces. “If you brought me video I could tell you if he’s using of not, but this picture is useless.” He tossed the print out back on the table.

The second man, who had been quiet until then, lifted the paper up, and his brows furrowed. He took a drag on his cigarette, and blew it out. “Wait a minute…. I know that guy….” He was pointing at sandy haired man. “Shite, I can’t remember his name… give me a few minutes, I’ll think of it… He’s a military bloke… Served in Afghanistan… He trained under me for a few weeks… Not a bad shot… Hard ass, if I remember right… I bet he’d remember me… they always seem to.”

The three men were quiet, two of them looking at Jim, waiting for him to say something.

“A former addict… encroaching on my business… I don’t like it.” Jim said, thinking. “Fascinating though, truly. Must be smart enough to set himself up as he did. Has to know computers, and banking, and business… The smart ones are the fun ones.” A smile started forming on his lips. “It could be funny, watching him squirm. If there is something that is entertaining to watch, it’s an addict who is offered his weakness. Once and addict, always an addict.” The other two men waited. Jim continued. “But, there are a few things that are even more fun to watch… What can you tell me about this other man? Sebastian, I need you to get me all the information you have on him.” He pointed. Then a truly evil grin passed over his face and the other two men looked at each other. They knew what it meant when Jim got that look on his face. This was going to be enjoyable.

**

Several days had passed since “the kiss” and nothing seemed to have changed. There were no awkward silences, no attempts to force uncomfortable conversations, no noticeable changes in attitudes or behaviors or anything. It was almost as if “the kiss” hadn’t happened at all.

But that didn’t mean that both men weren’t thinking about it.

The day had been a slow one, Sherlock wrapping up an experiment on the effects of humidity on house fly activity, and John cataloging old case files. It proved to be a challenge for John just to decipher Sherlock’s abbreviations. He was getting better at it. The more he deciphered, the better he got. It was almost like learning a new language.

And John was fascinated by what he read. Of course he had to read through the files in order to catalog them. The files would contain police reports, photos, lab tests, notes that Sherlock took from the crime scenes or when he questioned witnesses. John was amazed at what Sherlock deduced from the information he had. John had asked him several times to explain a line of reasoning that he found in the case file, and found it was always perfectly clear after the explanation. Sherlock made it look so easy. John resisted the temptation to ask for details and explanations on every case; he’d never get anything catalogued that way.

A few times, after reading the file, John could swear that he could actually see the case. He’d hear the questions as Sherlock interrogated witnesses, see Sherlock chasing suspects, or hear him admonishing the met for being dull. It made him giggle and he wondered if anyone would read a book if he wrote one about all these cases. True crime reports, they wouldn’t even have to be embellished. Probably people wouldn’t believe what he wrote. He wasn’t sure he’d believe the stories if he didn’t know Sherlock personally.

John came across a case where the left foot of a corpse was missing, and Sherlock had to find it to prove the death was accidental (the man had actually cut his own foot off because he had become caught in a snare trap and had to sever his own foot to escape. Unfortunately, he died of blood loss.). After asking questions about the case, and cataloging it, John told his own story of finding a leg while on patrol outside of Kandahar which delighted Sherlock.

After dinner they settled down to watch a DVD, one of John’s favorites (Monty Python and The Holy Grail) which Sherlock had never seen. John made a bowl of popcorn, cleared a spot on the coffee table for it, and sat on the sofa with the remote in his hand. Sherlock pulled a couple of bottles of beer out of the refrigerator for them, opened them, and joined John on the sofa, handing over one bottle and keeping one for himself. Sherlock sat with his head on one arm of the sofa, spread across the seat, with his knees up and bare feet ending at John’s thighs.

The movie started, the crunching of the popcorn making John giggle for some unknown reason. Sherlock looked at him and just cocked one eyebrow, so John shrugged, unable to explain his giggles. How do you explain to a genius that you find loud chewing funny?

The empty beer bottles ended up on the coffee table next to the half eaten bowl of popcorn, and Sherlock readjusted his body slightly, stretching his legs one by one. It felt like the most natural thing in the world for John to gently grasp Sherlock’s ankle as he stretched and gently place those feet on his thighs. They continued to watch the move, Sherlock stretched out, feet on John’s lap.

John didn’t even realize that he had reached up and was gently drawing circles on the arches of Sherlock’s feet with his thumbs. When the pace of the movie picked up, so did the circling. Then John’s hands moved to Sherlock’s ankles and did the same thing, adding a gentle massage to the circling. Sherlock hummed in appreciation, and John looked down at his hands as if surprised, then smiled up at Sherlock. There was nothing awkward in the moment; it was as if this had happened a thousand times before. John absentmindedly continued his motions, up Sherlock’s shins, as his attention returned to the movie.

As would happen in moments such as this, Sherlock felt the call of nature, so he got up and emptied his bladder. When he returned, he sat down, leaned his back against John’s chest, and pulled John’s arm around his body. John scooted Sherlock forward, and pulled his leg up onto the sofa and behind Sherlock, so that Sherlock could lie back against him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock placed his hands over Johns, interlocking their fingers. They sat through most of the rest of the movie like this.

As the credits started to roll, John started to rub Sherlock’s chest. He could smell Sherlock’s hair, the scent of his shampoo and soap still present, acting almost as an aphrodisiac. He nuzzled Sherlock’s neck with his face, taking in the scent, and Sherlock moaned softly, rubbing his shoulders back against John. John’s lips started pressing soft kisses on Sherlock’s neck, up to his ear lobe, and his tongue traced the swirls and crevices of Sherlock’s ear. He licked the inside of Sherlock’s ear, then breathed heavily into it.

Sherlock groaned, and he started to get hard. He could feel John’s erection growing against his back, and he pushed back against it. Then he twisted his face and chest searching for Johns lips with his. He kissed John’s chin, then the side of his mouth, then he found his lips. The kisses were slow, and tentative, kissing John’s upper lip, then his lower lip, and he bit playfully at John’s lower lip, which caused a small giggle to erupt from John’s throat.

Sherlock’s tongue tasted John’s lips, which parted, inviting Sherlock in. Sherlock’s tongue explored John’s mouth, his upper teeth, his lower teeth, then deeper into his mouth. Tasting the roof of his mouth, then twining with John’s tongue, slowly, as if every taste and movement was being memorized and savored. John moaned in reply, and he pushed Sherlock’s body against the back of the sofa, and pulled his leg free, so that they were side by side, Sherlock half on top of him. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s neck, and pulled him gently forward once again.

Sherlock rested part of his weight on one arm, the other hand gently exploring John’s chest. Sherlock smiled, which John could feel through his kiss, and John asked, his voice soft and low, “what?” Sherlock shook his head and continued the slow kiss, not wanting to take the time to explain the happiness he felt, and the almost-absurdity of the bulk of john’s woolly jumper under his hand. Instead, he slowly and gently ran his hand down John’s chest, under his jumper, freeing John’s t-shirt from his jeans, and back up onto John’s bare chest. He felt John’s smile against his lips, and they both chuckled softly.

As they continued to kiss slowly, John’s hand smoothed the front of Sherlock’s shirt, and popped each button free, starting at the top button and working his way down. Once they were all unfastened, John’s hand gently caressed Sherlock’s chest while his shirt hung open, still draped over his shoulders and arms. One arm on Sherlock’s chest, one around Sherlock’s neck, John’s hips started to undulate slowly, rubbing up against Sherlock.

Sherlock’s hand moved slowly down John’s chest, and circled his navel. His index finger dipped below John’s waistband, gently tugging at the fabric as he inched slowly downward. John moaned and pushed into Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock flicked the button of John’s jeans open, and slid the zipper down, rubbing his palm up and down John’s shaft through his pants.

John’s hips responded, and his voice, deep and guttural, moaned “Sherlock… oh god…” He was hard, pulsating under Sherlock’s touch. He grabbed at Sherlock’s button and zip, and frantically worked to free Sherlock, his finger’s trembling. He wondered how his fingers, the fingers of a surgeon and a marksman, could be trembling. But that is what the touch of Sherlock did to him.

John got his fingers to work, and after unfastening what he needed to, he pulled Sherlock’s pants down to his thighs, grasped Sherlock, and rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s slit. Precome moistened his thumb, and John spread it over Sherlock’s shaft, slickening the surface.

Sherlock reached into John’s pants and freed him. He pushed his body closer to Johns, hip to hip, their bodies becoming one. Sherlock became breathless being so close to John, feeling John against his. Grasping both of their shafts in his hand, Sherlock rubbed up and down, his hips bucking against John’s, unable to hold back the groan that started deep in his throat.

John’s hand joined Sherlock’s, enveloped it, and urged him to go faster, and harder.

Their actions became hurried and desperate, their breaths loud and fast. “Sherlock… god… I’m close…” Those words were enough to push Sherlock over the edge, and he pulsated come all over their chests and John’s jumper. He continued to pump his hand, and a few seconds later John was spilling also, his body jerking as his orgasm completed.

Sherlock collapsed onto John, their chests and hips pressed together as their breaths returned to normal. John wrapped both his arms around Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock cupped John’s head in his hand as he balanced part of his weight on his other arm. They lay that way for several minutes, neither one wishing to move, enjoying their combined exhaustion.

Finally Sherlock kissed John softly on the lips, and rolled to the side, falling slowly and calculatingly onto the floor. He adjusted his pants and trousers, and retrieved a flannel. Smiling at John, he cleaned John’s chest first, slipping his hand under John’s jumper, then wiped his own chest, his shirt still open on his shoulders. “Sorry about your jumper.” Sherlock chuckled.

John smiled back. “I’m not.” Sherlock helped his peel the jumper over his head and onto the floor. Sherlock then finished wiping John’s chest, threw the flannel onto the floor, and cuddled up next to him.

**

John was beginning to become more comfortable in his role in the money laundering case that Sherlock orchestrated. He had done a lot of reading on the internet about securities, keeping books and money laundering. He was amazed at the variety and depth of information available on illegal activities just by querying a search engine. Of course, there was no way that he could do anything close to what Sherlock was doing, but he was more comfortable with the jargon and that alone went a long way in boosting his confidence.

John had also started to carve his own role out. He researched their businesses’ locations, making note of what businesses or residences surrounded each location, the neighborhood, and access points for both police and patrons. Sherlock showed him how to access tax records, not only current records, but records going back a decade or more. If you knew where and how to look, as Sherlock did, information was plentiful on the registered business owner, their credit histories and background information. John amassed all that information, and consolidated it into a neat package and passed it along to Sherlock. All of this was done prior to setting foot in the business.

Once on location, Sherlock hit the computers and worked the numbers. John scouted out the exterior, making note of potential entry points (legal and illegal), proximity to escape routes, and general condition of the building. He then continued his information gathering indoors, noting security measures, and general building layout and condition.

On this day, Sherlock and John were going to a small coffee house that inhabited the first floor of a Victorian flat. John had been to several businesses already in his new role as Altamont’s minder, and none of the clients batted an eye at him. The coffee house appeared to be a simple neighborhood gathering spot, run by a middle aged couple. The man, short, stout, with a receding hairline and gruff voice, introduced himself as the owner and showed them in. It was clean and well cared for, but not pretentious. After introductions, John excused himself, and started his work. It only took John a few minutes to discretely survey the outside of the business, then he found Sherlock inside, and continued his information gathering.

The office that Sherlock was set up in was a small, cozy room, little more than a supply closet, without any windows or secondary doors. His computer was open, and Sherlock was already immersed in the details of the bookkeeping. John tapped Sherlock on the shoulder just to let him know that he was indoors, and left the room again to continue his routine of mentally noting the businesses security measures and floor plan. It may be necessary to know such things when the time came, if it ever did, to go after the small fish in the laundering business.

There are times when the subconscious breaks through the veil and into the conscious, and Sherlock was deep in his thoughts when this happened. He suddenly had a foreboding which shivered up and down his spine. Looking around, he realized that John had not returned from his survey of the inside of the business, although it had been at least an hour since he had seen him last. It could just be that John had stopped to talk with the husband and wife. John was very genial, but usually not while on a case. Sherlock felt his hear rate speed up, and a sudden panic surfaced.

“John?” Sherlock said loudly, first glancing around the small office, then rising to his feet and striding to the door. “John!” He looked down the hallway, then heard some soft chuckling wafting down the hallway, a chuckling that was unfamiliar to him.

Sherlock followed the sound of laughter to a large storage area where he found the stocky man who introduced himself as the business owner and two other men. The owner was slouched in a cheep metal folding chair, an unlit cigar hanging from between his lips, fingers of his hand gently pressing against his right temple. He was facing a tall, well built man with a graying mustache who was leaning against the wall, and a slightly built small man, with a hand on his hip who was chuckling. They seemed to be sharing a private joke.

The three men stopped talking as Sherlock popped his head into the door, and Sherlock was shocked to see John in a metal arm chair, slumped but somehow propped up in a chair, his eyes half open, his chin resting on his chest. Small yellow green chunks of something clung to the corner of John’s mouth, and stained the front of his ecru jumper, and Sherlock realized it was vomit. Plastic ties secured his wrists to the arms of the chair, his legs were sprawled limp, likely in the same position they were when he was dumped into the chair.

Sherlock tensed and every muscle in his body wanted to respond by running to John’s side, shaking him, picking him up, what ever needed to be done to rouse John. But his instincts told him to play it cool. He knew that something was desperately wrong. He tried to clear his expression, to keep the panic from showing on his face, and to act nonchalant and unconcerned. “Ah, there you are John…” The three men looked at each other, then burst into laughter. John did not move, his expression remaining blank.

“Not much of a minder, is he?” The owner said, mirth dripping from his lips. “I hope you’re not paying him… a dog could do a better job protecting you.” The other two joined into the laughter once again.

“Yeah, but he did manage to give you one hell of a shiner!” The tall man taunted the owner, as he peered at the man’s eye, noting the increasing swelling.

John’s head lulled from side to side and he managed to say “hummfurr… susss.”

“What have you done to him?” Sherlock asked quietly, trying to calm himself. Until this moment, Sherlock hadn’t considered himself to be in any danger, any real danger in his role as Altamont. He had thought Mycroft’s protestations about him working alone were unfounded. Money laundering, after all, was thought to be a victimless crime. It was a crime of paper, of semantics; it was not theft, money was not forcibly taken from one individual and given to another. It was just a matter of what terms you used to describe the money in various stages of transit, legal or illegal. But now, staring at his friend slumped in the chair, the entirety of the situation struck him and almost paralyzed him. By his carelessness and refusal to acknowledge the risks involved, Sherlock had put John’s life in danger. His stomach churned almost uncontrollably.

The laughter died down, and the tall man piped up. “I would have thought that was obvious to you… a drug addict. Must be amusing to you, seeing him like this… do you wish it was you instead?” He smiled wryly at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Drug addict?... I… I don’t understand…” And for once in his life, he truly did not.

The thin effeminate man rocked side to side on his heels. “Oh, but I think you do, Mr. Altamont.” He stared at Sherlock for a minute before continuing. “You see, Mr. Clay here,” he gestured towards the business owner, “recognized you… he remembered seeing you when you were a customer of his lads… you bought _a lot_ from his outfit… oh, I see that you start to understand… good…” His eyes were piercing Sherlock’s. “I don’t know what a _drug addict_ is doing trying to move in on my business. You seem smart enough… this is a pretty good racket that you have developed here… but that doesn’t discount the fact that this is _my_ city.” He almost shouted the last two words. Sherlock’s mind was reeling. He wasn’t saying… he couldn’t be implying…

“So I asked myself, Jim, what does a drug addict want in _my_ city? He _must_ want drugs… but you don’t look like a drug addict… your thinking is logical and clear… you are much too intelligent for that… then I figured you must want some drugs for your little pet here… he is quite adorable… so we helped him with that… it was so funny… Just a little pop in the arm and in a few minutes, down he went…” The other two men chuckled.

“What did you give him?” Sherlock’s fists were clenched, and he spoke through gritted teeth, trying desperately to calm himself.

“Oh, I think you can tell me!” The man’s voice went high. “Not _your_ normal poison, but I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Sherlock couldn’t hold back any longer. He strode past the men in the room and crouched down next to John, lifting John’s chin with his palms. His muscles were flaccid; his pupils were constricted despite the dimness of the room and not focusing well. Placing two fingers on John’s wrist, he felt for a pulse. It was slow… too slow. John seemed to rouse some, and some guttural mutterings escaped from his lips once more.

Sherlock stood up, and spun around, facing the man in charge, the man who called himself ‘Jim’. “Why did you do this? What do you want?”

Jim shrugged. “Bored… Bored… Not much going on in the city… But then word of you came around… and I thought you might amuse me… I didn’t know you’d bring your pet along. That was just a happy accident.” Jim continued to maintain his aire of nonchalance.

“Hummph…Oystersss….sooo prolifffffic…” All eyes moved to John, then the three accomplices burst out laughing. John was looking at the corner of the ceiling, not focused on anything, head rolling slightly.

“As far as what I want… I want you to _surprise_ me…” Jim’s manic eyes locked with Sherlock’s for just a few moments, then he turned around and started pacing. In a child like voice he started, “What will Altamont do… what will he surprise Jim with…” Then he continued in a more menacing voice. “You might have figured out that this” he waved his hand around airily “is _not_ our business, and that he” Jim pointed at Clay, “is not the owner. We just ‘borrowed’ this location. Boy, won’t they be surprised with what they find here!” He was positively gleeful. Then, as if a veil came over his face he looked at Sherlock and leered. “You have your prints all over this place, your computer intimately united with the computerized books here… A former drug addict, breaking and entering, and stealing from the books of these fine business owners. _Very suspicious_. How quickly can you clean that all up?” He looked meaningfully at Sherlock, stopping his nervous treading for just a moment before breaking eye contact and continuing his pacing once again. 

“Then, you have your… pet… who is about to overdose, I predict, and will need immediate help, and if you don’t immediately help him… ohhh wellll…” He drew the last two words out. “So… what will you choose… saving your own arse, cleaning up after yourself and retreating before the _real_ owners return… or helping your… boyfriend, your poor drug addicted pet who will die without help…” He waited a moment to see if Sherlock would rise to the bait, when he didn’t Jim continued. “Then… then, after all that….what will Altamont do to _keep_ Jim happy…” He put stress on the word ‘keep’ and drew it out.

“You’re insane.” Sherlock spat. Jim looked pleased, as if Sherlock finally grasped a very important fact.

“Ah, yes… Boys, I think it’s time to put things into motion.” He looked pointedly at Clay. Clay met his eyes and smirked. “Mr. Altamont, I hope you won’t try to intervene, if you do, Moran will have to kill you. In fact, I may have to beg him _not_ to kill you anyways.” The tall man drew a pistol out of his waistband, but he did not point it at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes were locked on Moran and his gun, but then movement off to his side drew his attention.

Clay moved to a table at the side of the room, and picked up a small object, hidden from view by his body. He approached John, and pushed the sleeve of his jumper up past his elbow. Sherlock instantly understood what he was going to do and started to move, but Moran’s arm with the pistol shot up and aimed at Sherlock. Sherlock stopped, momentarily locked eyes with Moran’s, then focused his attention back on what Clay was doing, clenching his fists in frustration. His mind was trying to work out a way to stop the insanity that was about to happen, but the odds were so out of his favor that he could not find a solution. “No!” was all that he could say, and he shouted it as loud as he could, but it didn’t even cause Clay to hesitate. He saw a glint of light bounce off the syringe in Clay’s hand as he positioned John’s arm. “No! What are you giving him? Stop it!” That outburst caused an amused smile to form on Jim’s lips. 

“Delicious!” Jim exclaimed, savoring the emotional response. His eyes were locked on Sherlock’s face, frawing intense pleasure out of the discomfort he saw there.

It only took Clay a moment to steady John’s arm, pull the skin taught, and insert the needle. He stopped at that point, syringe and needle stuck in John’s vein, and he turned and sneered at Sherlock. John jerked at that moment, and said something that sounded like “mumm funnda” and the syringe went flying to the floor, breaking the tension in the room.

Clay slapped John across the face and shouted “Bollocks!” Blood was dripping off of John’s arm, and Clay grabbed the syringe from the floor, jabbed it into his arm roughly two or three times, then sent the plunger home. John’s eye’s popped open and his whole body tensed, his legs kicking out straight, his neck and spine extending, his arms lurching as far forward as his ties allowed. John’s whole body appeared to shutter.

“I do hope you were generous.” Jim said to Clay. He was rewarded with an evil smile. “Good…. Now boys, I think it’s time for us to leave Mr. Altamont here to clean up.” He looked at Sherlock “Remember what I said...” Clay and Moriarty walked out, and Moran followed, backing out of the door with his pistol still focused on Sherlock. Sherlock dashed to John, and in barely a minute, he heard the front door slam shut.

John’s body was trembling all over, his breaths shallow and rapid. Sherlock whipped his mobile out of his pocket and dialed.

“Mycroft… I need an ambulance…” He gave the address. “Keep it as quiet as you can…No, I’m fine, it’s John… I don’t know!... Make sure they have Narcan… And send your best analyst, someone who can remove code.” He listened for a minute. “Yes, that would be best. They don’t need to return now.” He hung up the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far!! Whew… you’re more than half way through now.
> 
> I couldn’t resist the oyster comment… a nod to the cannon, and The Adventure of the Dying Detective.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning- mentions of crimes against children

Sherlock crouched back down next to John’s side, panic welling in his mind. Calming himself so that he could think, he contemplated how to remove the plastic ties that bound John’s wrist to the chair. He didn’t carry a knife with him, so he ended up rifling through drawers trying to find something sharp. He could find nothing in the small room, and he did not want to leave to look elsewhere.

Sherlock’s nervous energy caused him to stand and crouch repeatedly next to John, not finding a comfortable position to be in. He touched John’s chin with him palm, but that just caused John to startle. As Sherlock watched, John’s muscles jerked against the restraints unconsciously and the plastic tore into his flesh of his wrists. Sherlock’s anger and frustration rapidly escalated as he could not even move John to a more comfortable position. John suddenly went still, and Sherlock’s heart felt like it was stopping. In the blink of an eye John’s whole body went stiff, his teeth clenched, a groan escaped him, and some blood saliva dripped from the corner of his lips. Then every muscle in his body seemed to become activated, jerking his body around. Sherlock jumped back in surprise and shock. Not knowing what else to do, he redialed Mycroft’s number and screamed into the phone. “Hurry!” Sherlock’s hand jerked open, and the mobile fell to the floor. Then John’s body went still again. Sherlock held his breath as he waited for John to breathe. John’s lips started to blue, and Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, a “NO” forming on his lips. Then John took a sharp breath in, and Sherlock released his.

Feeling completely helpless, Sherlock did not even notice the tears rolling down his face until they dripped onto his arm. The sound of the front door opening drew his attention and he yelled out “In here!” Two men and a gurney appeared through the doorway. He had not heard sirens, so Mycroft must have passed along the instructions of being as discrete as possible.

The two men stopped, a bit taken aback seeing a nonresponsive man tied to a chair. Then one calmly asked “What did he take?” The two men started forward again, the other man pulling out the bandage scissors that would cut through the ties.

Sherlock screamed at them, “He didn’t _take_ anything, it was _given_ to him!”

While continuing to free John, the man then asked “Okay, so what did you give him?”

If the two men hadn’t actually been helping John, Sherlock thought he’d probably have strangled them right there. “I didn’t _give him_ anything!” He paced back and forth, watching them as they lifted John and placed him on the gurney. He took a deep breath, “Just give him Narcan.” Then, answering their unspoken question, “Heroin, I think. And maybe cocaine.”

The two men worked in concert, checking his airway, respirations and pulse. Already in his hand, the second man injected a liquid into John’s arm, while the first man was inserting an IV into his other arm. “He just… I think he just had a seizure.” Sherlock stuttered. The first man nodded in acknowledgement. They started rolling John out the door, and towards the front door, while Sherlock followed close behind. They didn’t fight him as he climbed into the back of the ambulance with John.

Sherlock tried to stay to the side while the paramedic monitored John, checked his blood pressure, connected a bag of fluids to the IV, and injected medications into the lines. The ambulance was driving fast, but the turns, stops and starts were smooth. The beeping of the heart monitor was fast and steady, and that mollified Sherlock some, but he still could not tear his eyes away from John. 

Not long ago he hadn’t even heard of John Watson. He would have scoffed at the very thought of someone invading his life and becoming such an intricate part of it, especially in such a short period of time. But the last few months had brought such happiness and the feeling of completeness that he never imagined existed. He would have never thought it possible to spend so much time with one person, and not become repulsed, bored, discontent, not devise plans to escape to solitude. John was steady, solid, brave, bright, attractive, and funny. How many people could make Sherlock laugh? He knew that he was quite fond of John. But it wasn’t until now, until he wondered if it was too late, that he realized that he actually loved John.

The ambulance rocked from a particularly hard bump in the road, and Sherlock’s eye drifted to the window in the front through which he could see the driver. When his gaze returned to John, John’s eyes were open, not focusing on anything, but they were open. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he leaned forward. John closed his eyes, then opened them again, and he tried to wet his lips with his tongue. His head lulled to one side slightly, then his eyes closed again. Sherlock’s mood was buoyed a bit, and he allowed a sliver of hope to enter his mind.

The ambulance slowed, and entered the A & E. John was rushed out, and doctors were waiting, thanks to Mycroft’s intervention. John was rolled immediately into an awaiting room, the door closing behind him, a nurse standing at the doorway to keep out everyone but the necessary medical personnel. Mycroft himself was waiting in the lobby, in suit and waist coat, umbrella in hand, and he placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Waiting is never easy in an emergency situation, and this was no exception. Sitting in a cheep plastic chair, elbows on knees and head in hands, Sherlock’s head shot up every time a doctor appeared in the doorway to the waiting room, and time and time again he was disappointed. Mycroft said nothing to Sherlock, but he walked to the corner of the room and lifted his mobile to his ear. Several minutes later a young man in scrubs, with a white lab coat over top, and a stethoscope hung around his neck appeared in the doorway, scanned the room with his eyes, and motioned to Mycroft and Sherlock. The two men followed the doctor past the double doors where visitors were not allowed, and the doctor turned to speak with them.

“Mr. Holmes,” he was looking at Mycroft. “Doctor Watson is stable, and is being transferred to a private room. I’ll let you know as soon as he is settled in. It will only be a few more minutes. I appreciate your patience.” The man had an insincere smile pasted on.

Despite his dour mood, Sherlock smiled to himself. He recognized the influence of Mycroft, and realized that someone was going to be reprimanded for making the Holmes brothers wait as long as they did. Sherlock often resented his brother’s interferences, but this time his involvement was more than welcome.

Sherlock and Mycroft did not return to the public area. They waited where they stood, and just minutes later several people in scrubs emerged from a nearby room, steering a gurney between them. Although Sherlock couldn’t see him, Sherlock knew John was on the gurney, and he followed the team with his eyes anxious to be summoned to follow. The group reached the lift, which was waiting for them, and disappeared inside. Sherlock watched the numbers above the lift door, each number lighting up in turn, until reaching the number five, which stayed alight.

Mycroft’s phone chirped, and he glanced at the screen, then his thumbs answered. A minute later, a well groomed man in a dark suit and white shirt pushed through the employee only doors from the A & E entrance, and approached Mycroft. In his hand was a soft shelled briefcase which he handed to Mycroft, who just nodded his thanks before the man returned the way he came.

Sherlock did not hear the sound of the lift moving, but when the door opened, he snapped his head in the direction of the noise. The young doctor who had spoken with them a few minutes earlier returned to the brothers. “Please, follow me.” The doctor attempted a smile again, but it looked tired and worn rather than sincere. The three men entered the lift, and were conveyed up to the fifth floor, where the doors again opened. They stepped out onto the fifth floor, and followed the doctor down the hallway to room 515. Outside of the room, the door of which was closed, the doctor turned to them.

“I know that you are anxious to speak with Dr. Watson, but he is in no condition to be answering questions at this time.” He took a deep breath as he was prepared to go on with his prepared speech.

Mycroft interrupted him, “Doctor, I can assure you, we are here right now as Dr. Watson’s family and are only concerned with his well being.” Mycroft looked meaningfully at Sherlock. There were very few times that Sherlock appreciated Mycroft’s ability to deduce his thoughts at a glance, but this was one of them. Sherlock had never said anything to Mycroft about how much John meant to him, and the direction that their relationship had taken, but Mycroft knew none the less.

The Doctor was startled for a moment, then he allowed himself to relax a little. “Good… that is good. I’m sorry, I just assumed since you were here…” He was looking pointedly at Mycroft, then shrugged his shoulders. Mycroft didn’t usually questions agents himself, but rarely, in highly classified cases, he had been at the bedside of agents, anxious for a piece of information. It had been a fair assumption for the doctor to make.

Sherlock hadn’t really allowed himself to think at all since they made it to the A & E. He felt sick, knowing that John was there because of him. Because some sick bastard remembered him from his previous life, before he had a purpose, when his only aim was to escape the boredom of everyday life. When life itself wasn’t interesting enough by itself, and he needed the stimulation of cocaine to provide the vivid details and color that were lacking. And that sick bastard thought it would be entertaining to see how Sherlock responded to a choice, a choice between saving his own skin and someone else’s. Now those thoughts sickened him, and he wished that his mind would once again go blank, that he could return to oblivion, where his feelings were numb. He wished he could erase all thoughts, all memories, all the feeling and sentiment that were welling up inside of him.

Sherlock was frozen, unable to speak, unable to reach forward and open the door. Mycroft’s eyes fastened themselves on Sherlock, and he realized that his brother needed him. His brother, who claimed to be a sociopath, someone without a heart, needed Mycroft to ease the way. “Can you tell us please how Dr. Watson is doing?” he asked.

The doctor first looked at Sherlock, but since Sherlock was looking at the floor, he turned his attention back to Mycroft. It was much easier to talk to someone who was looking at him. “He is sedated due to the risk of more seizures, but he seems to have responded well to the Narcan. Narcan counters the effects of some drugs, like heroin, but not others, such as cocaine. I understand he may have been given both?” He looked for confirmation from either Holmes brother, but neither one answered. “We’re running a tox screen for confirmation, some tests to check for organ damage from the drugs, and we’ll follow up with some heart tests when the drugs have cleared his system.” Mycroft nodded that he understood.

“How long do you anticipate he will have to stay here?” Mycroft was speaking for Sherlock.

“It all depends on what our tests tell us. Maybe overnight, maybe longer.” The doctor looked from one to the other of them. He waited for about fifteen seconds, and when no further questions came, he excused himself.

Mycroft opened the door to John’s room, and stood back to allow Sherlock to enter. Sherlock’s guilt momentarily paralyzed him, but then he looked at his brother, and slowly advanced into the room.

What Sherlock saw did nothing to allay his guilt. The room was dim, and John was connected to an IV line in one arm. There were wires connected to his chest, a steady soft beep that coincided with his heart beat, and he was asleep. One side of his face was turning a spectacular shade of purple as was his inner forearm where Clay had repeatedly jabbed him with a needle. As far as hospitalized patients went, John looked reasonably good. But Sherlock was seeing the worst, fueling his guilt.

The room was a private one, which Sherlock correctly surmised was Mycroft’s doing. In the corner was a padded arm chair, which Sherlock pulled forward next to the bed. Sherlock perched on the seat, his knees drawn to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around his knees. He watched as John breathed in and out steadily, and allowed the rhythmic tone of the heart monitor relax him. He felt Mycroft walk up next to him, and place the soft briefcase next to him. “Your lap top and phone.” Mycroft explained. Sherlock had left them at the coffee shop when he hopped into the ambulance with John. He nodded to indicate that he heard, but he did not even look down at his computer or check his phone for any messages. Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, squeezed softly, then left.

Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand, interlacing their fingers. He forced his mind to remain blank. Every time a thought started to interrupt, he focused on the periodic table, then forced his mind blank again. He did not want to think or feel anything. Once emotions started to erupt, the guilt overtook all other feelings, and that was too overwhelming. Better not to feel anything. So he kept clearing his mind of thoughts and emotions.

A couple of hours later Sherlock heard an increase in the tempo of the heart monitor. He felt the fingers that were laced with his move, and John’s eyes opened. It took John several moments to awaken and focus. His tired eyes looked to Sherlock, and he smiled weakly. “God, John, I’m sorry, so sorry….” Sherlock couldn’t look at John any longer. He felt his eyes start to well, and he tried to blank out his mind again.

“Sherlock…” John managed to whisper.

Sherlock looked at John, and didn’t see any accusations there. He tried to be as positive as he could, and asked softly “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been hit by a lorry…” John croaked, and he actually tried to smile. “I swear to god every muscle in my body hurts.” Sherlock smiled back weakly. “And I feel sick… and dizzy…” Sherlock squeezed his hand. “God, what did he give me?” John’s other hand went to his face, rubbing his temple, then he pulled back slightly, and gently probed at his left temple.

Sherlock cringed, and hoped that John didn’t see his expression, and replaced it with as much of a smile as he could paste on his face. John looked at him, expecting an answer. “Not sure…” Sherlock muttered.

John kept his gaze where it was. It was odd for Sherlock to say he was uncertain about anything. “But you think you know.” Sherlock nodded. John waited a moment, then persisted, “Well… what?”

Sherlock looked away, speaking at the wall rather than to John. “Well, based on your symptoms and what they said, I believe they gave you heroin…”

“Oh…” John exclaimed. 

“Then something called speedball, which is cocaine plus heroine.” 

“Oh!” John said, his eyes growing wide. Suddenly he felt more awake. “What? He gave me more? … Christ, I remember getting stuck in the arm… I was high, then I don’t remember much, only a few minutes.” Then Sherlock’s comment reran in his mind. “What do you mean ‘based on what _they_ said’? Who are _they_? How many of _them_ were there?” John tried to sit more upright, but gave up immediately s the throbbing was overwhelming, and set his head back down.

“There were three of them.” Sherlock answered, once again talking to the wall.

“How did you get out? What happened?” John questioned.

“Maybe this should wait until later.”

“No, tell me what happened.” John implored. Sherlock sat, just looking at him. He didn’t particularly want to recount what had happened to John, having to describe John’s reactions, his seizure, having to relive what he saw. He didn’t want to have to face his own guilt, his role in what happened. But John needed to hear it. And for some reason that Sherlock didn’t quite understand, what John needed became far more important than what he, Sherlock, wanted.

Sherlock leaned back in the chair, tapping his fingers on his knees, gazing over John’s shoulder into the corner of the room. He took a deep breath and started. “John… I…” Sherlock stopped and took another breath, looking for the right words. “John… em…” He stood up and started pacing, finding that the action stilled his mind. He tented his hands in front of his chin. “I’ve always needed stimulation to keep me busy… even as a kid…” Now he looked at John. “You haven’t seen me bored, a bit, maybe, but not deep down bored, with my mind searching so desperately for something to grasp onto that I’m going mad… My mind needs work, it needs puzzles… without that, my system crashes, it goes offline.” Sherlock stopped. His voice had been rising, and his hands gesticulating to accentuate his thoughts, and he suddenly realized it. He didn’t like it. Control was vital, and he was struggling to maintain it, so he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.. He looked at John, who was silently watching. So he continued, clasping his hands behind his back while he resumed pacing, and returned his voice to a more normal volume.

“When I went to Uni, time was much more my own. At first, everything was new and interesting, so it wasn’t a problem. However, I soon came to realize that most of the instructors were idiots.” John smiled at this; Sherlock thought almost everyone besides himself was an idiot. “One afternoon I was commenting on how dull everything was when an older boy heard me, and told me he had something that would take away the dullness. He introduced me to cocaine, _pure_ solution, he told me. Of course I knew that was bunk, but it was obvious that the boy believed it. So I tried it. And he was right that it took away the boredom, for a few hours anyways. It made my thoughts my thoughts more clear and rapid, colors more vivid, sounds more deep and euphonious, and tastes… three dimensional. But the effects didn’t last long enough. I had to take it more and more often and soon I was hooked. I didn’t believe so at the time, but I was.”

John was captivated; Sherlock seldom talked about his past. And he was talking not just about people he had known, or even stories about what had happened to him, but about very personal choices that affected the person he became. John was afraid to even move lest he stop.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his brows furrowing a bit and his lips pursed, as he weighed what to say next. “I dropped out of University, not expecting Mummy to cut off access to my trust fund. So I made due… I didn’t have a job per se, too dull, so I made money at cards, and solving problems that presented to me. I lived on the streets with other homeless people that I networked with, or slept on sofas or floors. And of course, I took cocaine.”

John was starting to feel the effects of the drugs and sedatives on his system again, the initial rush of adrenaline fading. His eyes were growing heavy. But he did not want to miss a word of what Sherlock was saying, or to dissuade him from talking in any way, so he fought to remain alert looking.

“I became quite familiar with the streets and alleys of London at that time. Murders were common where I stayed. Lestrade was on homicide at that time, so he became a familiar sight. I would give him leads and hints on who the murders were, and at first he didn’t pay me any mind. But then he started to notice that I was right, and he would listen to what I had to say, unlike the others. We developed an odd friendship based on murder…” Sherlock was silent for a moment, but continued to pace. Then he stopped and looked at John. “The first bad overdose I had was called in by some acquaintances of mine as a murder. They saw me in the alley and thought I was dead. Lestrade was the one called to the scene. Quite a shock for him. Not only seeing me like that, but later he joked that I was his only murder victim to survive.” Sherlock smiled to himself at that. “He was really quite good to me. He gave me a place to stay after I got out of the hospital, provided I stay clean, which I did…mostly. Had a couple of relapses, but eventually I got cleaned up.”

John appreciated the honesty of the story. He wished Sherlock would open up more like this. But he still wanted to know what happened at the coffee house, and his thoughts were getting more fuzzy. Sherlock, always good at reading people, saw that he needed to move on. He sat down again in the armchair, took Johns hand in both of his, and held them close to his chest.

“We don’t have to do this now… we can talk more later…” John shook his head, his eyes begging Sherlock to continue. Sherlock was reluctant. He paused for a minute, collecting his thoughts and likely his courage as well, then swallowed. “John, I am so sorry… what happened to you today was meant for me… I should be the one in the bed right now… not you.”

John stopped him. “Sherlock, don’t be silly… You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Sherlock looked up at John sharply, then looked down, still clutching John’s hand. “The man who contacted me was _impersonating_ the owner. He actually was a supplier, name of Clay, who recognized me as a customer from back….” He stopped and swallowed hard again before continuing. “He went to his boss, name of Jim, and told him I was moving in on their business, and they devised a little warning. First they offered me drugs in exchange for work, hoping to get me hooked and dependent on them. Then, when I refused, plan B was to get me hooked again anyways…” He shook his head and raised John’s hand, still enveloped by his two, to his forehead and tapped his head several times. “When they saw you, they changed things up. A little game, they called it. They wanted to see if I’d stop to help you, or if I’d take the time instead to clear out fast, after they overdosed you. They figured I wouldn’t have time for both…”

John took a deep breath in. “So they gave me a second dose of… something.” Sherlock nodded, but didn’t look at John. Instead, his eyes were darting around, betraying his frustration and fear at the memory.

“No wonder I feel like I do…” John thought aloud. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could tell by Sherlock’s tone that he, Sherlock, blamed himself for what happened. John didn’t. But he was too tired to argue about it now. He understood it was part of the job. Hell, it was the job. His job was to keep Sherlock safe, and he’d arsed it up. If anything, John blamed himself.

John hadn’t meant to, but with his eyes closed, and drugs still in his system, he fell back asleep. Sherlock readjusted himself in the armchair and continued to watch John.

**

The next morning, nurses were once again taking blood samples to monitor John’s recovery and watch for any delayed effects of the drugs. John’s head was clearer, and his muscle aches, the results of the seizure, were easing up.

Sherlock sat holding John’s hand when Lestrade knocked on the door and walked in. Greg looked at their twinned fingers, and raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Neither Sherlock nor John had ever raised the topic of being in a relationship together with Lestrade, or anyone else for that matter. It wasn’t anyone else’s business. It wasn’t that they were hiding anything. They just believed their personal relationship was just between the two of them.

“Hey there John… Sherlock… How are you doing?” He was looking at John, concern evident in his eyes. He had heard the details of John’s ordeal and understood the significance of it, given his shared history with Sherlock.

“Emm, I’ve been better.” John smiled.

Greg returned the smile. “Yeah, I bet you have… Your face, again. You always let them get your face.” He was studying the bruising on John’s face. His eyes darted towards John and Sherlock’s interlaced fingers again, but then he looked away. “So, emm, what do the doctors say?”

John’s eyes held mischief. “Well, you know doctors, don’t know a damn thing.”

“I suppose not.” John thought that that smart arsed comment would have earned him a chuckle or at least a smile, but it did not. Lestrade was fidgeting, trying not to look at their hands. John looked at Sherlock and winked. He didn’t think that Lestrade cared that they were in a relationship. He figured that they had just caught Lestrade off guard, that he was surprised and startled, and he didn’t know quite how to react.

“So, when are they going to let you go home?” Lestrade’s attempts at conversation were pitiful, but John was enjoying himself too much to take pity on him. He usually didn’t revel in the discomfort of others, but it was the most he smiled since he’d been in hospital.

“Not sure yet… maybe today.”

“Right.” Lestrade flicked his eyes at their hands again, struggling to find a safe topic to talk about while he hid his surprise. “So, what’s new?”

John was now fighting hard not to laugh, but he managed to keep a fairly straight face, aided by the fact that Lestrade could no longer look at him. “Oh, not much…you?”

Lestrade thought about it, trying to come up with something to say. “Oh… Molly, the kidnap victim… she wants to move to London… says she needs to get out of the place she grew up… she’s having a hard time adjusting to, well you know, to being raised by kidnappers… she is thinking about changing her name to Hooper, her real name… in honor of her parents… says it’s the proper thing to do.” Lestrade finally looked at John and Sherlock again, thankful that he found a subject he was comfortable, even enthusiastic, about.

“So, when are you going to see her?” John teased.

Lestrade started to blush, suddenly less comfortable, “Emm… not sure yet.” Then there was silence. Lestrade looked at his watch, then suddenly said “Well, gotta get going… hope you’re better soon.” And he walked out the door.

John burst out laughing, and Sherlock chuckled along with him. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Sherlock asked him. John hummed. “I’ve never seen Lestrade flustered before. I couldn’t let him off easy.” Sherlock decided that he really loved this man.

**

The doctors informed John that he had to stay in hospital one more night. Although not pleased, Sherlock used the time to debrief with Mycroft about the events at the coffee house. John had wanted to go along, but there were reasons that Sherlock preferred to go alone, so he needed to meet with Mycroft before John’s release.

Sherlock met Mycroft in his private office at the Diogenes Club. Spacious, walls filled with books, and a central desk, Mycroft was thoroughly at home. Sherlock updated Mycroft on the status, in general, of his money laundering sting case, then settled into the specifics of what happened at the coffee house. Sherlock, because of his eidetic memory, was able to recall in great detail the happenings, and added in the few details that John had provided him. He did not leave out any facts, mostly because he did not have a reason to. Mycroft sat back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of his chin, and his eyes closed, as he soaked in all the details.

When Sherlock was finished with his monologue and Mycroft had ingested all of it, there was silence in the room for a few minutes. Then Mycroft turned to Sherlock. “What is the rest of it?”

Sherlock could have pretended that he didn’t know what Mycroft was talking about, and nine times out of ten he would have done so just to be contrary, but that would have served no purpose. So after a brief pause he launched into it. “Mycroft… I think it would be best if John were not my partner. Can he be removed from the case?”

Mycroft waited to see if there would be more of an explanation, when none came, he commented. “I seeee.” The last word was drawn out. “I thought that Captain Watson was an excellent choice as a partner.” Mycroft used the terms of rank when it suited him. “Your partners never seem to last long. But usually they are the ones asking for a reassignment.” Mycroft’s hands went to his desk, still folded. “So tell me, dear brother, who is it that you wish to take his place?”

Sherlock’s eye’s snapped to him. A look of triumph entered Mycroft’s eyes, then vanished. “Mycroft, I work best alone.” Sherlock started. “You know that I’ve always worked best alone.”

“Our previous discussion about the necessity of a partner still stands.” Mycroft informed him. “That has not changed. The case has progressed to a point where a partner is undeniably essential… I will remove Captain Watson from your case. But you will be removed as well until a new partner is assigned.” He let the words hang in the air.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock implored “A partner will only slow me down. I don’t need to be concerned about a partner’s safety as well as my own.”

“Ahh….” Mycroft stood up and approached his brother. “Sherlock, what happened to John is not your fault.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. Of course it wasn’t”

Mycroft looked thoughtful. “It was clear from your report, that this ‘Jim’ that you spoke about, is intrigued by you, almost, may I say, obsessed with you. Everything that happened there, _everything_ , revolved around you… The fact that John was there probably saved you a lot of… discomfort.” Sherlock would not look at him. Mycroft continued. “You appear to have been the intended recipient of their attentions, not John. He likely got in their way, and provided a… distraction… to what their initial plan was.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock, and saw that he was clenching his fists. “But you have already deduced that, dear brother.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, but he didn’t say anything. There was something in Sherlock’s expression that softened Mycroft. “Sherlock…” Mycroft touched Sherlock’s forearm with a hand. “This was not your fault.”

Sherlock jerked his arm away, and strode to the window, peering out. “I was unacceptably slow in realizing something was wrong.”

Mycroft considered. “Perhaps… But it may be that you have struck closer to the heart of the matter than we realized, than any of us realized.” He looked at Sherlock meaningfully as he said that. “You are making someone very nervous. Nervous enough to take action.” 

Mycroft continued pacing. “Let’s consider, hypothetically, that we remove Captain Watson from this case. Then what? He gets reassigned to another case. More dangerous? Less dangerous?” Mycroft’s shoulders lifted up an inch, then dropped. “And if we no longer required his service at the agency, then where would he go? Where do you think a man like Captain Watson would end up? At an office, a business? HA! No, he has been a trauma surgeon, a soldier, an agent, what would be next? Something equally perilous, I am certain.” He turned and looked at Sherlock. “And you, when you are facing Moran, or Clay, or Jim, who do you wish to be your confederate?”

Mycroft crossed the room and deposited himself back in his chair at the desk, leaning forward, hands clasped in front of him. “You and John have both chosen dangerous lives. So, dear brother, you have to ask yourself, do you want to face the danger alone, or with John?”

When Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft, he was looking at his older brother, his confidant of years ago when he was a child, the big brother who would make everything better. Years of hardness had fallen from Mycroft’s face. Sherlock nodded at his brother once “Thank you, Mycroft.”

**

Tea had been served, along with some pastries, and Sherlock noted with some mirth that Mycroft ate two of them. 

When the tea was mostly gone, Mycroft continued the conversation. “We have found a minimum amount of information about your recent… fans. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Dishonorably discharged from the service three years ago, no intelligence information since then, stayed off radar completely… military sniper… he was at the CTCRM when Captain Watson was there for some training. There is no indication at this time that they interacted, but one never knows… his career was quite distinguished until he was suspected of re-routing arms shipments for sale to Afghan rebels. Unfortunately it couldn’t be proven. He had a reputation for being strict, cold, and insubordinate.”

Mycroft shuffled some papers. “John Clay… pawnbroker, several arrests for dealing in stolen goods, criminal mischief, known as a local drug dealer, but never convicted … interests in photography and chemical processing, wife was killed two years ago in an automobile accident, no known associations with Moran, prior to your experience.”

“As to the identity of ‘Jim’… we need more data before we can speculate. I have sent out requests for information on any Jims or Jameses that might be involved with drug trafficking, but without being able to supply more definite criteria, I’m afraid the field of candidates is too large.”

Sherlock was pacing in front of the window, sorting the information that Mycroft supplied. He sighed loudly. He was frustrated that Mycroft could not supply more definitive information about Jim, but he was more infuriated with himself for not noticing more, for being distracted by what was happening to John. He was not used to the distraction of sentiment, of relationships.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft interrupted his flow of thoughts. “Now that we have solidified the identity of your partner, we need to discuss additional ways to keep you safe… Captain Watson is, of course, perfectly capable of defending you, I could think of no one better, but technology does grant us some excellent opportunities that you are likely unaware of.” Sherlock shifted his glance to Mycroft.

Mycroft opened a drawer in his desk and carefully extracted several mundane looking items: a set of keys, a shoelace, a pair of eye glasses, a tie with tie pin, a pen, a wireless mouse and a cigarette lighter. “In these items you will find cameras, recording and listening devices, poison dispensing units, GPS location devices, mobile phone signal disruptors, and wireless internet network interferences units. Several million pounds worth of technology.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the last comment. Trivial matters such as money interested him little.

“Additionally, over here,” Mycroft glided over to a table against the wall with a black silk cover on it, pinched the silk and lifted it off, “is a selection of pistols. I know you prefer not to carry a weapon, but you should have one readily available in case you should need it. There are a variety of holsters available as well.” 

Mycroft returned to the desk and pulled out one remaining item, contained in a black canvas bag. He scooted it across the desk towards Sherlock. “And we must return this to Captain Watson. It was found at the coffee house. My men have examined it and found no evidence of tampering.” Sherlock placed his hand over the bag and felt the outline of John’s Browning 9 mm.

Although Sherlock enjoyed the benefits of technology, he believed his greatest weapon was his mind. As such, he did not overindulge or rely heavily upon devices. In the end, he chose only one item for John, the set of eye glasses. Additionally, he left his laptop so that retinal eye-scan technology could be installed. This would insure that Sherlock was the only one allowed to access his computer and, more to the point of this conversation, the only one to activate certain fail-safes. And at Mycroft’s insistence, Sherlock took a Browning L9A1 identical to John’s, with shoulder holster, and for John, a Sig Sauer P220 with ankle holster.

The two men, often at odds, shared a meaningful look between themselves that only brother’s can share, one that spanned the decades of shared history, one that said what words couldn’t. Mycroft asked, “Baker Street?” Sherlock nodded. Mycroft lifted his phone to his ear and called for a car.

**

It had been a long and frustrating day at the hospital for John with Sherlock at the Diogenes Club. He had little to occupy his mind except for a couple of magazines that one of the nurses brought in for him. He was laying on his bed with his eyes closed, heart monitor wires still connected to his chest and the monitor beeping rhythmically, when he heard a soft click of the door closing. Expecting it to be one of the many disruptions that occur during hospitalization, he was slow to open his eyes.

When he did, he heard the rhythm of the monitor increase rapidly, and he pressed the nurses call button. Distorted flashes of the events of two days ago poured past John’s eyes. _Moriarty_ was standing near the door smirking at him


	7. Chapter 7

“The nurses that you called won’t come. You don’t think I’d just walk in here without any preparations, do you?”

John tore the wires from his chest, and jumped to his feet. “Oh!!!” Jim’s voice squealed with delight. “You _are_ feeling much better than the last time I saw you!” John started to move towards Jim when Jim flashed opened the front of his suit jacket revealing a pistol tucked into his waistband. His hand went to the gun, he pulled it out and pointed it at John. “Oh no, no, no… we can’t have you doing _that_ …” The pitch of his voice changed dramatically as he spoke.

“What do you want?” John spat.

“Oh! And you are speaking much better as well!” Jim let out a maniacal laugh, but his eyes never left John. He took two steps towards John, but John stood his ground.

“What. Do. You. Want?” John repeated through clenched teeth, fighting to control his anger and maintain his composure.

“Don’t worry, Johnny boy. I’m just here with a message.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded square of paper, held it up for John to see, then placed it on a small shelf next to the door. “It’s for Altamont… what is his first name, by the way? Sur names are so formal…”

Sherlock’s alias slid off of John’s tongue easily, “Charles.”

“Charles!... Not _Chuck_ ,… or _Charlie_.” He drew out the two informal names in an American accent. He was clearly amused. His eyes stayed on John. For half a minute he just soaked up the details of John wrapped only in a flimsy hospital gown, then he drawled “Nice… I can see why he keeps you around.” He lifted an eyebrow in a suggestive way. John was not a modest man; no one who spent 9 years in the army could be, but John felt sickened by his gaze. He held his ground, and did not let his expression betray him.

“Well Johnny boy, just make sure he gets this.” He tapped on the shelf, then, gun still aimed at John, walked backwards out of the room.

As soon as Jim was out of the room, John ran to the door, threw it open, and raced into the hallway. It was empty. Not a single person down the hall to the right or to the left, and no doors were left swinging closed. The man apparently vanished into thin air. John’s breaths came fast. He slid back into his room. He walked back and forth in the room for a minute thinking.

He realized that he was not safe at Barts. Jim could have walked right up to John and killed him before John knew what was happening. John had not considered that his safety would be a problem in a public hospital with doctors and nurses, patients and visitors all milling about. But Jim had managed to manipulate the circumstances such that he walked right into and out of John’s room with no witnesses. If his goal was to unnerve John, he was successful.

John did not know who ‘Jim’ was, but now they had some data. They had the note, which may have fingerprints on it. There might be images on the CCTV system of the hospital or surrounding streets. Perhaps there were witnesses who saw Jim enter or leave the hospital, or while he was walking around the corridors. Now was not a time to be laying in a hospital bed waiting, now was the time to work, to contact Sherlock and Mycroft, and to discover the identity of Jim and the other men who landed him at Barts.

John started rifling through drawers in his room until he found a specimen jar. Without touching it, John scooted the folded up paper into the jar and fastened the lid. He went to the wardrobe and started dressing, putting on his pants and trousers, then his vest and jumper. In the bottom of the wardrobe was his mobile. He dialed Sherlock’s number.

“Sherlock, he was here…. Jim… here, the hospital room… no, don’t bother… I’m coming home… I don’t care, if they need me back I can come back in the morning… no, he just walked right in…. there’s a note for you that he left… I don’t know… Don’t worry, I’ll take a cab… Fine, see you in a bit.” He hung up. 

John put his socks and shoes on, grabbed his jacket, and dashed out the door.

**

To say that Sherlock was upset with Mycroft was an understatement. As soon as he had hung up his mobile with John, Sherlock had called Mycroft, told him of John’s encounter with Jim, and berated him on the lack of security for John at Barts. “John just had an attempt made on his life at the coffee house, and you don’t set up any security while he lay helpless! It’s a wonder you’ve made it this far in your career!”

“The attempt was on _your_ life, _you_ are the intended target, not John. We already discussed this today. Surely Jim’s actions at Bart’s are further proof of that.”

“You couldn’t have known that when John was sent to Barts. You didn’t have the facts then. Security should have been instantly set up until it was determined that it wasn’t needed.”

“I didn’t need those facts. I deduced them.”

“Rubbish!” Sherlock spat. He wished he were having the conversation with Mycroft in person so he could watch his expressions, as subtle as they were. “What are you hiding?”

“My dear brother… I am not _hiding_ anything. It is true that I am in possession of facts that you are not, _many_ of them.” Mycroft chided. “But this does not mean that I am hiding anything from you.”

“Fine.” Sherlock hung up.

Sherlock was relieved when he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs. John opened the door, scooted in and closed the door behind him. Before he had a chance to say anything, Sherlock was already striding across the room and embracing him in a gigantic bear hug. Then, with ferocity that surprised John, Sherlock locked his mouth onto John’s, and pushed him back against the wall. Sherlock cupped John’s mouth in both his hands, kissed him on the mouth, then continued to kiss him on the cheeks and forehead. All of the angst pent up in Sherlock from John’s overdose, then his second encounter with Jim in the hospital, spilled out of Sherlock in a flurry of kisses. His hands rubbed John’s arms, then his waist and thighs, as if making sure John was really all right. Sherlock’s anxiety started to ease as relief flooded through him. John then wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s neck, and one around his chest, and returned a proper kiss, teasing Sherlock’s lips open with his tongue before twinning his tongue around Sherlock’s. Sherlock relaxed and responded in earnest.

When their kiss ended, John chucked. “What did I do to deserve that?”

Sherlock smiled back. “I’m just glad you’re home. I got a bit… worried.” His brows furrowed, and his lips started to purse.

“Sherlock, I’m okay…” John assured him. Sherlock nodded, still a bit uneasy that John was only a target because of him, even though that was precisely John’s assignment- to keep them safe. Sherlock surveyed John again with his eyes to help convince himself that he was all right.

“Good… Now tell me what Jim said, exactly his words.” John was getting better and remembering conversations and retelling them verbatim. He did so, with only a couple of minor mistakes.

Sherlock considered for a moment. When he talked to Mycroft, he had intended on sending the note to be analyzed intact. After hearing John’s retelling of the events he reconsidered. He knew how to handle evidence without disturbing it, that was not a concern. And based on the nonchalant way that Jim handled the note, keeping it in his pocket, and waving it around while speaking to John, Sherlock concluded that it was not poisoned. “Let me see the note.”

John pulled out the specimen jar and handed it over to Sherlock. Sherlock took it to the kitchen table, slipped his hands into a pair of nitrile gloves, and unscrewed the lid. Handling the small piece of paper only by the corners, he gingerly unfolded it. It simply contained a phone number. No name or message. Sherlock committed the number to memory, refolded the paper, replaced it in the jar, and secured the lid.

Sherlock paced back and forth several times, his hands clasped behind his back, then he picked up his violin, tightened his bow and rubbed rosin on the strings, and began to play. The music was fast, chaotic, and used the entire range of tones the instrument was capable of. He played this way for a quarter of an hour or so, when he suddenly stopped, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and read a text message. He responded, and told John a messenger was outside to collect the evidence. There was a knock on the door almost immediately, and John answered, handing the jar to the awaiting man. Without having even waited for the exchange to take place, Sherlock resumed his playing, wandering around the sitting room as he did so, deep in thought.

Sherlock had been playing about an hour when John’s eyes became heavy. He struggled to keep them open, then decided he should just surrender and go to bed. He had not slept much the night before, with the constant disruptions by nurses checking his vitals and obtaining fresh blood samples. He said goodnight to Sherlock, who did not reply, then climbed the stairs before collapsing into bed, his head barely resting against his pillow before he was asleep.

**

“John… wake up….” Years in the army and as a surgeon trained John to wake up swiftly with very little prodding. He was sitting up and alert in a millisecond, and on the defensive. In the few months that they had been working together, Sherlock had not had the need to waken John. He was glad that he had not touched the man before voicing his name; he may have been the victim of a sudden violent reaction.

“Oh… em… sorry…” John muttered, but Sherlock just chuckled. He was surprised by the gentle apology, an apology from a trained killer who was abruptly woken.

“We’ve been summoned.” John could tell from Sherlock’s tone that it meant a meeting with Mycroft. “You have enough time to wash up and get a cup of tea.” John noted that Sherlock was dressed and looked crisp and pressed. He wondered how the man could look that way, knowing it was likely that Sherlock had not slept at all.

In the few minutes that they spent drinking tea, Sherlock updated John on what they knew of the identity of the three men and the gadgets that Mycroft had sent with Sherlock in the guise of eyeglasses for John, and the retinal scan lock for Sherlock’s computer. He retrieved John’s Browning, and with the addition of the Sig Sauer and ankle holster, handed them over to John. John was thankful to have his pistol back. Holking onto the grip, John felt the weight in his hand, and it somehow made him feel more whole, as if it was a part of him. Sherlock then also showed off his new Browning to John, who was surprised that Mycroft would allow Sherlock to carry. Sherlock was the brains of the team; John was the man of action.

**

The dark sedan had picked them up a short time later. John reflected on the fact that it had become normal for him to travel around in dark cars with tinted windows and a professional driver. The car stopped in front of the familiar building, the Diogenes Club. The doorman nodded at them as they entered; they were expected.

Mycroft was on his mobile when they entered his office. His gaze passed over them, and he quickly ended his call. Mycroft stood, and motioned them to have a seat on the other side of his desk. Once Sherlock and John sat, Mycroft followed, always precise with his manners.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft greeted them as he did every other agent. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to waste your time, but I thought it important to keep you abreast of developments.” He shuffled some paper in front of him. “The Head of Security at Barts is working closely with our men to determine what happened there. At the very least, nursing personnel were not at their stations when they should have been, endangering John’s life by being unable to respond. That would be a matter for Barts to address internally. More likely, there was an organized conspiracy to aid our mysterious ‘Jim’ in his designs.” Mycroft tapped his fingers on his desk, his meticulously manicured fingernails hitting the two hundred year old wood. “I feel the latter explanation is more likely. Our men have a good working relationship with the Head of Security, as does Lestrade, so that is likely to be an ongoing investigation.”

Mycroft paused, so John took that as an indication that he could interject a question. “Have we been able to see any internal security camera footage?”

“We have, and there is a paucity of images with the elusive Jim. He appears to have been acutely aware of the location of cameras.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock, as if expecting a comment, but none came.

“As for the CCTV footage outside of the hospital, we are still analyzing it.” 

Sherlock sighed loudly, an indication of his impatience and frustration. “Have you got _any_ information?” He barked.

Mycroft shuffled the papers in front of himself again. “The note intended for you has given us some interesting enlightenment. The phone number on the paper is to a disposable phone, there is no registered owner and we are unable to track any activity. However, the fingerprints… the fingerprints are very telling.” He looked at John and Sherlock to confirm he had their attention. He needn’t have worried. “The fingerprints gave us a hit, but the name that appeared was NOT a Jim or a James. But a Richard Brook.” John’s brows furrowed, his face a study in confusion. Sherlock, on the other hand, had not changed his expression in the least.

“Richard Brook was an actor that first appeared on record about twelve years ago, and disappeared about five years ago. He has no birth certificate, health records or school records. He surfaced as a struggling actor, obviously an alias.”

“Five years ago he was suspected of exposing himself to a ten year old boy, and was arrested and fingerprinted. But he was never charged. After he was released from police custody he disappeared. Here are the files that we have on him.” Mycroft pushed a file folder across the table to John and Sherlock. Inside were a variety of documents, including an arrest record with mug shot, with lurid details of an alleged sexual encounter with a young boy, date, time and location indicated. Additionally, there was a resume, listing several children’s programs as accomplishments, a promotional poster, and photographs. There were also copies of a driver’s license, passport, and a certificate from the Kings College of Theatrics and Dance.

“We do not know if ‘Jim’ is another alias, or what the associated surname is, but we have some leads which we are pursuing fervently.”

There was silence in the room. Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his chin, leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the ceiling, thoughts and deduction whirring through his mind. John focused his eyes on the Richard Brook file, repulsed by the sight of the man who drugged him, and sickened at the thought that the man, what ever his name was, may be a pedophile. And Mycroft wondered if his mother would forgive him if she knew how much danger he was knowingly putting Sherlock into.

After several minutes, Sherlock’s chair rocked forward and he announced “I’ll call Jim’s number from Baker Street.” Mycroft looked questioningly at the pair, silently asking if they needed anything else. He knew that calling Jim was only the start of a dangerous cascade of events for Sherlock.

**

Once the pair returned to Baker Street, Sherlock pulled out his lap top and engaged with it briefly but intensely. Slapping the top shut, he slid his hand into his jacket pocket, and liberated his mobile. Sherlock contemplated for a moment, nodded to himself, then worked his thumbs. He placed the device to his ear.

“Yes?... yes.” There was a long pause as Sherlock listened. “I understand… yes…” He looked at his watch. “I’ll be there.” He removed the mobile from his ear, and absentmindedly tapped his index finger on the back of it while he thought. A moment later he re-pocketed the mobile and turned to John.

“I’m going to meet Jim.” Sherlock turned and started towards his bedroom. John grabbed his arm and turned him around.

“Sherlock, no… what do you mean _you’re_ going to meet Jim? I’m going too. _Partners_ , remember? I’m not letting you go alone. Too dangerous.” John was holding on to his arm, eyes locked onto Sherlock’s.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John… I can take care of myself. And ‘partners’ does not mean we are attached to each other at the hips. It means we coordinate our activities to maximize out success.” John released his hold on Sherlock’s arm dramatically, and held his hand up, palm towards Sherlock, taking a step back. “John, you have to trust me…”

“It’s not a matter of trust!… I do trust you Sherlock… But you saw what he did to me. Christ, Sherlock, don’t you see what he is capable of!? Men like that… they won’t hesitate to do what ever they feel is necessary to get what they want.” John rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “If he gets… even an inkling… of a hint… that you might not be… this… Altamont…. you’ll wish he would just… kill you and be done with it.” John rubbed his palm down over his eyes and chin. John shook his head, breathing deep, trying to select the right words, and he paced back and forth a few steps. John tried to stop the parade of images that cascaded through his mind. Images of interrogations, tortures, mutilations of suspected dissidents and rebels, and of his fellow soldiers.

Sherlock saw something in John’s eyes which betrayed his thoughts. He strode forward and put his hands on John’s shoulders. “John… John… look at me.” John reluctantly dragged his eyes to Sherlock’s. “My strongest asset has always been my mind… I’m not like you. In many ways I envy you.” John huffed loudly, clearly disbelieving him. “Your ability to handle weapons with surgical accuracy, your sixth sense in sniffing out opponents, your lightning fast reflexes. But that is not me… I rely on my thoughts, my brain, to outwit my opponents, to act without moving, to deduce rather than fight…”

“This, what we are doing, is not an isolated sparring session. It’s not even a battle. It’s an outright war… searching not for a local pickpocket or small time thief, but the great prize, the Napoleon on crime. It is going to take time. Likely a long time. And we are only on the first step… trying to identify him. This is the easy part… After that, evidence collection, conviction… those steps will be much more complicated.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath and removed his hands from John’s shoulders. “I don’t know if we are even on the right track with what we are doing. I could spend months, years as Altamont, and never attract the attention of who we are searching for. But right now it is what we have; it’s our best shot.” Sherlock looked meaningfully at John, then walked to the window and looked out.

“There are going to be times, likely many of them, where we have to work together, but not necessarily side by side… Can you do that John?” He continued to look out the window. Sherlock thought he knew John’s response to the question. But the alternative was unthinkable. Sherlock needed John, needed him not only in his life, but also as his work partner. There was no one else he could trust so completely.

Sherlock was suddenly struck by the realization that he had just had a very similar discussion with Mycroft. One where he argued for the protection of John, though his means were by pushing John away as his partner. Now John was arguing for the protection of Sherlock, but his strategy was by drawing themselves closer together. John and Sherlock were like two ends of a magnet. Very similar in most of their properties, directly opposed in others, and undeniably attracted to each other. They belonged together. If they were separated, they would seek each other out.

He sensed John behind him, then felt John’s arms wrap around his waist, John resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock turned around, reciprocating the hug, holding John close, resting his cheek against John’s head. They stood that way for several minutes.

“He fancies himself a cerebral man.” Sherlock broke the silence. “Altamont has piqued his interest. He wants to meet alone, just the two of us, to talk. John, I don’t trust him, but right now I have to take him at his word… If he wanted to hurt me he wouldn’t be playing this game… sending notes… phone numbers… it’s very adolescent. Right now he is toying with me, with Altamont.” 

John pulled back, and looked up at Sherlock. “Where will you be meeting?” It was John’s way of acquiescing.

“The coffee house.” Sherlock didn’t mention it by name, but John knew which one he meant. The memories made him cringe.

“Bring your gun.” John instructed. 

Sherlock shook his head. “Out of character for Altamont… John… I’ll be all right.” John nodded absently.

“All right?” Sherlock asked. John forced a smile. “mmm.”

Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and reappeared several minutes later, in tight jeans, trainers, tight t-shirt, a black hoodie, round eyeglasses and a baseball hat. John could see the shimmer of a thick chain around his neck, almost completely obscured by the hoodie. Sherlock sauntered, and his shoulders were rounded, completing the character of Altamont. John smiled, amazed as always by the transformation. Sherlock indeed looked ten years younger.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and kissed him softly on the lips. “It’s almost like I’m kissing someone else.” He teased.

Sherlock raise an eyebrow. “Maybe you should find out if he’s a good shag.” John hummed and moved a hand towards Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock jumped back, a bit surprised. “I didn’t mean right now…” John chuckled, and Sherlock smiled at him.

“Be careful.”

“Always.” Sherlock kissed him chastely on the lips, picked up the ruck sack with his lap top in it, and went on his way.

**

Sherlock gently tried the door to the coffee shop where he was to meet Jim, and it yielded. Sherlock pushed it open, and hesitantly entered the shop. The overhead lights were on. All the wooden chairs were turned upside down on their respective tables, with the exception of one table, where the two chairs were set across from each other. One occupied by a slight man, dark hair slicked back, wearing a suit and tie. There was a delicate tea set on the table, steam gently emoting from it.

The man stood up, his brown-eyed gaze taking in Sherlock from head to foot. “Delicious! You are simply delicious!” He cocked an eyebrow suggestively.

Sherlock ignored the flirtation and approached the table. Jim motioned with his hand for Sherlock to sit, so he did, placing his ruck sack on the floor next to his chair.

“So nice to finally meet you… properly. Tea?”

Sherlock nodded curtly. Jim poured tea for both of them, slid one cup to Sherlock, then picked up his own, sipping gently.

“You know… when Clay first told me about you, the young drug addict trying to move in on my business… this…” he waved his hand up and down indicating Sherlock, “is not what I expected…” He thought for a moment. “I expected some pathetic looser not worth my time… Instead I got you… What a pleasant surprise.” He took another sip of tea, and drummed his fingers on the table. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, balancing on the rear legs, his gaze locked on Jim.

“We haven’t actually met.” Sherlock reminded him.

Jim’s face lit up. “Very good!” His voice squealed in delight. He held a hand out, “Jim Moriarty.”

Sherlock looked at his hand, rocked his chair forward, then held out a hand, “Charles Altamont.” They shook hands.

“Charles! Somehow it suits you… Did you go by Charles when you were taking cocaine? Or was it something else? Chuck perhaps?” Moriarty raised an eyebrow at him, clearly enjoying the sense of superiority that Sherlock’s past afforded him. Sherlock was careful to hide the fact that his past did not embarrass or bother him in the least. His past was his past, it was just that simple. He could not change it now. It even had helped create the man he’d become.

“You know, it’s really not polite to move in on someone else’s territory. You lived on the streets… You _know_ how this works…” Moriarty appeared more menacing now.

Sherlock played his role. “I didn’t realize… I didn’t know who to go to…” He appeared a bit nervous, his finger tracing the rim of his tea cup. “I think maybe we could, maybe we could work together…”

Jim smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “And why would I want to do that? I could just make you… disappear…” He fluttered his fingers up through the air.

Sherlock appeared to be thinking. “I’ll give you a cut… a cut of everything I do… in exchange for some kind of protection.” He looked up at Jim hopefully. 

Jim slowly shook his head slowly, with an exaggerated frown. “Pittance.” There was a silence for about two minutes as Sherlock appeared to be struggling for ideas, his eyes darting about in thought, his feet dancing on the floor. “Charles, really, I’m disappointed in you. Disappointed. I thought you were smarter than the others.” Sherlock looked up at him sharply. “After all, I did tell you last time we met what I was expecting, but did you listen?” His voice had a sing song quality about it.

Sherlock looked around frantically, then, as if he suddenly remembered, he spat out “you said last time that you wanted me to surprise you!”

“Good!” Jim’s voice squealed. “Now surprise me! You don’t have your pet here to protect you, so use your brain!”

Sherlock tapped his thumb on the table for a few seconds, then stopped and looked up sharply at Jim. “You know what I do?” He looked at Jim, waiting for some sort of response. Jim barely nodded. “Right… of course you do… your associate set me up last time.” Sherlock continued. “You are right that a cut of my fee is pittance. But what if, in the code that I create to move money around between the businesses offshore accounts, I put in some lines of code to siphon off a certain percentage, and send it to an account for you? A small percent of each transaction would quickly add up to a meaningful sum. I could even set it up so that extra transactions take place, just to siphon off more…” He looked at Jim like a student looking for teacher approval. “They would never know what was happening… I already have some clients, I’ll get more…”

Jim was thinking. Sherlock could almost hear the gears set in motion. He hoped that he had not pushed too hard too fast. Several minutes went by, then a slow grin started forming on Jim’s face. “I want to see your code, what you do, and how you do it.”

Sherlock looked at Jim, then started to frown. Jim was watching his expression closely. “What? Are you trying to hide something?” he asked, defensively.

Sherlock looked up at him. “No, nothing to hide. Just thinking about my job security. If you know how I code the books, the transactions to wash the money, am I expendable? But, thinking about it, each client needs the books so individualized, the transactions tailored to the business and its activities, that it is not something that can simply be repeated, it has to be recreated each time, with many variables… So… okay… I’ll show you how my programs and codes work.” Sherlock hoped that he wasn’t overdoing it and that Moriarty was buying it all. 

Jim grinned at him. “Good… Good.” 

Sherlock pulled his lap top out of the ruck sack, placed it on the table, and started it up. He was facing Jim, so when the retinal scan program scanned Sherlock’s eye, Jim saw nothing unusual. Sherlock accessed the latest client’s books, and pulled up a program with long strings of computer code. He connected to Wi-Fi, pulling up several banking sites. Then he swung the screen around for Jim to see.

As Sherlock walked him through the steps needed to successfully launder the funds, pointing to the codes used with various transfers, and following the transactions thru the banking system, it was clear that Jim had a fairly strong grasp of what Sherlock was doing. It was unlikely that Jim could create the code himself, but his knowledge was substantial enough to understand the transactions and the necessary steps involved. Jim knew enough that he would have been able to pick out a fake, but Sherlock was no fake, and Jim knew it. Sherlock could feel Jim’s giddiness rising, a realization sudden hitting him that Altamont’s scheme was a veritable gold mind.

When Sherlock’s explanation of the laundering process was complete, Jim smiled and sat back in his chair. Altamont had delivered more than Jim could have hoped for. “Can you set up an account for me, say in the Caymans, and start siphoning off of that business right now?” Sherlock nodded. “Let me see you do it.”

Sherlock turned the computer around so it was once again facing himself, and he accessed, or rather hacked into, a banking site on the Cayman Islands. He set up an account under the name of James Moriarty, after asking if James was his legal name, and wrote the account information down on a scrap of paper, sliding it to Moriarty. He then returned to his program codes and amended them in several places. Making several other changes, Sherlock clicked back to Moriarty’s account, and turned the screen for Moriarty to watch.

Deposits started appearing in Moriarty’s account. Not large ones, but they were consistent, and if Altamont was to be believed, untraceable.

Jim’s face radiated. “Where did you learn how to do all of this?”

Sherlock’s shoulders raised up an inch, then fell again. “I just sort of figured it out. I’ve always been able to figure stuff out.”

Jim was quiet for a minute, his face screwed up in concentration, then looked at Sherlock. “You know, I could get you some blow if you like… consider it a gift of appreciation…”

Sherlock smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “No thanks. I don’t do that stuff any more.”

“Well, if you change your mind… we could do some bartering… I could find things for you to do in exchange for…”

Sherlock interrupted him, “No.”

Jim laughed wryly. “Touchy. Once an addict…” 

_And you would love to get me hooked again and dependent on your supply_ , Sherlock thought. It was actually a very clever and businesslike approach, trying to get Altamont dependent on drugs again. Then Moriarty would have a strong leash on him.

Sherlock looked away theatrically. Jim let the subject drop. There was an awkward silence.

“Well, Charles, I think we can work together. I’ll _let you_ continue to work your gig, and you cut me in like you just showed me.” Sherlock nodded once. “Good, then I’ll leave you alone to work.”

Sherlock looked at him. “And John too. Leave him alone too.”

Jim looked at him, and his eyes shone brightly. “Your pet hasn’t learned his lesson?” He looked Sherlock up and down again with exaggerated interest. “I don’t know what you see in him. Terribly dull. You deserve someone… _better_.” He let the words just hang, but his eyes stayed fixed on Sherlock.

“I _think_ better when he’s around.” Sherlock said simply, hoping to sound nonchalant.

“Oh, _thinking_ , that’s why you have him around, is it?” Jim said sarcastically, then he laughed, a strange high pitched noise. Sherlock made himself blush, thankful that he had developed that skill. Oh, the theater lost a great actor when Sherlock became a detective.

Jim drained his cup, and made a big pretense of looking at his watch. “Oh, look at the time… gotta run… I’ll be in touch. I look forward to working more… closely… with you.” His smile sent chills up Sherlock’s spine. Jim pushed his chair back and walked to the front door. “Ciao.”

Sherlock sat still for a moment, and quickly determined it was best if he was not found sitting in an empty coffee house. He quickly but quietly exited out the front, and walked to Baker Street, using the time to sort through his thoughts.

**

Sherlock updated John and Mycroft about his meeting with Jim, and passed along Jim’s new account information, hoping it might perhaps illucidate some interesting transactions in the future. Sherlock was hopeful that some code would remain embedded and traceable. He kept the comments that Jim made about John to himself, not wanting to worry John unnecessarily. Mycroft set his men on digging up any information on “Moriarty”, but Sherlock was fairly certain that it was another alias, given how freely Jim had released it. Even as an alias, however, it may provide them with additional information, or be a link to other information.

**

Altamont received another request from a client to help with the books. It was from a small family owned bakery, a wonderful place to go if you wanted home made pastries, but an even better place to go if you needed help with forged documents. It was owned by an innocent looking couple in their sixties.

Sherlock and John did their regular pre-visit surveillance in preparation for the job. The evening of their visit, Sherlock dressed in the usual manner for Altamont. This time, in addition to the Browning tucked into his waistband, John strapped his Sig Sauer to his left ankle, and put his new set of glasses in his shirt pocket. Sherlock refused to strap on his Browning, insisting that it was out of character for Altamont to holster a piece.

John and Sherlock took a cab to the business, and knocked on the door. The wife let them in, thanking them for coming and helping them. Everything had already been explained to the couple, so the wife led them to the back room where the office was. She explained that her husband was busy with “his other job” and would be back later in the evening.

The office was much like every other office they had been in, a simple set up with a desk, some file cabinets, a book shelf, and a couple of chairs. Since all the businesses that they had worked with so far had been roughly the same size, it was not surprising. Sherlock unpacked his lap top, set it up on the desk and turned it on while John started looking around at the shelves and files. John was a bit on edge, completely understandably, since it was only at the last job that John had been drugged out of his mind. However, the only people who were at the bakery were Sherlock, John and the wife, which provided him with some comfort.

“All right?” Sherlock asked John, sensing his agitation. John hummed noncommittally as he flipped through some papers. John knew he needed to look about, mapping out security measures and exits, and he wasn’t going to let a bit of fear stop him. He was a soldier, and had looked death in the face every time he was on patrol, or on a mission. He took a deep breath, and did his rounds, returning to the office to document his finds.

Sherlock was close to wrapping up, but had some questions about the legers that the wife had given him. There were some entries that did not make sense, likely just due to misuse of terminology or abbreviations, and Sherlock wanted to assure the transactions were set up correctly before leaving. John volunteered to get the wife, as he had seen her in the kitchen just a quarter an hour earlier when he had looked around. She had been chopping anise seed for the mornings special.

John found the wife in the kitchen as he anticipated, wiping down counter tops and completing the washing up. She smiled at John as he approached, and he conveyed the message from Sherlock that she was wanted in the office. Then he heard a sound that made the blood drain from his face, the sound of the safety of a gun being released. The woman’s face fell, and she looked frightened, then she quickly scurried out of the kitchen. John raised his hands, and slowly turned.

The distorted grimace of John Clay was staring at him, with the barrel end of a pistol directed his way. The sickening sense of déjà vu overcame him, and a rush of bile threatened to erupt, just tickling the backof his throat. He swallowed it down.

“You just don’t learn, do you?” croaked Clay. He looked amused. “Your gun, throw it on the floor.” When John didn’t move, Clay became angry. “I know you pack. Toss it down! Now! Or we can do like last time...” He pulled out a syringe and dangled it back and forth between his thumb and index finger. “And do it slowly. I’m not stupid.”

John slowly lowered his hands. As he moved to pull his gun out of his waistband, Clay waved his gun and shouted, “Slowly! Or you’re a dead man.” John wished Clay was just a step closer. One step closer and John could have taken him down in hand-to-hand combat. With the extra step, Clay would be able to get a shot off. John couldn’t risk it.

“Now move it.” Clay cocked the weapon. John started walking forward. “Move faster!” Clay demanded, and he shoved. John took a step, but slipped, and sprawled face first onto the floor, cutting his face on the corner of the counter. Clay guffawed, and kicked at John to get his to rise. John curled up in pain as Clay’s boot hit his abdomen, which made Clay howl even louder.


	8. Chapter 8

The wife, the co-owner of the bakery, appeared besides Sherlock and looked questioningly at him. Sherlock pointed to several entries in the ledger, and asked for an explanation. She answered his questions concisely and with a smile, and Sherlock continued his programming code, which was nearly complete.

Soft footsteps stopped behind Sherlock, and a hand went to his shoulder. Sherlock froze. He knew the feel of John’s hands on his body, and this was not John. Nor was it the wife. The hands were that of a man. As calmly as he could, he turned to see who was behind him. It was Sebastian Moran.

Now that he was working _under the protection of_ Moriarty, it would not be strange for Jim’s men to be checking up on him. But John would have never allowed them to walk right unannounced, without a struggle. Sherlock knew there was something terribly wrong. His heat beat went out of control and he fought to keep his reaction calm.

Sherlock nodded at Moran and continued to work, as much to buy himself time as  
anything else. He could continue to program while thinking. Multitasking was a skill he used often; it came naturally to him, and was often necessary, as a way to keep his mind busy when the tasks were too mundane.

He listened carefully for any sounds that might give him an indication of what was going on. Moran was making it difficult. Besides his presence itself being repulsive, the man was incredibly loud for a trained sniper, someone who relied on stealth, to some degree anyways, to take out his targets. But maybe that is why the man was a sniper and not a marksman or commando. The two tones of the heel-toe, heel-toe of the boot reverberating on the wooden floor, was so unlike John’s sturdy tread in his soft soled shoe. How had he missed that when the man came in behind him? It was so loud and obvious now that Sherlock thought it would drive him mad. _Concentrate_ he chided himself.

“Are you going to be long?” Moran’s voice was startling in the silence.

“mmm. Why?” Sherlock was aiming for nonchalance.

Moran looked at him for a moment as if deciding if he should answer. “Boss wants to see you.”

“Busy right now.” It was not the right thing to say. Sherlock felt a cold slice of metal at his neck. He stilled. The hand that held the knife was steady. Sherlock let it stay that way for several moments before adding, “Not able to work this way...”

Moran huffed, but the knife was removed. “Cheeky bastard.” He mumbled. “Just hurry up.” Releasing his breath as sloly as he could to maintain his charade of clam, Sherlock started typing again. He needed more data.

“Why?”

“What?” Moran was confused.

“I said why? Why must I hurry.”

Moran’s pacing step sped up. He did not answer. Instead Moran’s hand when to his phone, pushed a button, and listened. Fifteen seconds later he swore under his breath. The pacing continued, heel toe, heel toe, grinding into Sherlock’s thoughts. Moran went to the door and looked down the hall, unwilling to leave the room. He stomped back to Sherlock and looked over his shoulder. If the situation would have been different Sherlock would have chuckled. Moran had no grasp of what he was looking at- why did he even bother looking at the screen? Moran growled, picked up his phone again, and pushed the button. “pick up arse-hole… pick up…” Silence for a few moments, then Moran growled even louder “grrruuurrrrr!”

No one could hear a man growl without turning around, and Sherlock was no exception. His fingers stopped moving, and he turned to see Moran pocket his phone and reach into the waistband of his trousers. Sherlock’s eyes became focused on the barrel of a pistol pointed in his direction.

“Hey, what is that for?” He sounded indignant; in character for Altamont.

“Get up!”

“Why?” Yes, that was quickly becoming Altamont’s favorite question.

“Just do it!” Sherlock rose, and put what he hoped was a confused expression on his face.

“But I’m not done.” Okay, Sherlock supposed that he was making Altamont a bit thick, but he was buying time with it. He hoped John would be appearing at any moment. He hoped, but he was not going to rely on it. Then he felt the barrel against his temple. “Okay, just… okay.” Sherlock stood, and made his eyes appear wide.

“Get going.” Moran waved to the door with his pistol.

“But, my laptop…” Sherlock knew that his GPS tracking was on his laptop. If he left it behind, all his safety nets went with it.

“Just go!”

Sherlock managed to slap the lid shut, but the laptop was left on the table. Anyone who opened it now would be subject to a retinal scan. Then, when the retinal match was denied, at least a panic signal would go out. It wouldn’t track to him, but Mycroft would be alerted that there was trouble. And if John were still here, it would bring help to him.

Sherlock started walking to the door, but decided to push back a bit. “Mr. Moriarty, he knows I’m doing this. We worked it out.” 

Moran chuckled at this. “Yes, he knows you’re here. He wants to see you.” Sherlock was thankful for the chuckle. It meant that Moran was relaxing, and relaxing meant he was underestimating him. Altamont was not very intimidating then. Good.

Then, as if he had a sudden thought, Moran stopped. “Mobile.” He said.

“What?” All right. That might be Altamont’s second favorite question Sherlock supposed. But right now Altamont was keeping him alive.

“Give me your mobile!”

Sherlock reached into the pocked of his hoodie and removed the phone, extended his hand, palm up with the phone in it, to Moran. Moran grabbed it, and tossed it on the floor. “You can come back later.” Sherlock hesitated, and was ready to object in a manner consistent with Altamont, when Moran stomped down hard on the phone and guffawed. “HA! Sooo sorry about that… my foot slipped…” Sherlock just stared.

Moran pushed him forward with the barrel of the pistol, and Sherlock complied. Pushing him down the hall, in the direction of the front door, Moran hurried him along. Through the front bakery and out the door, and towards a waiting car.

**  
John was scolding himself for making the same mistake twice. Twice. How could someone get the jump on him twice? The first time, at the coffee house, okay, he could accept messing up, getting jumped, drugged. But tonight, again? 

So what if the owners were in on it. The wife was aware of Clay behind John, but she said nothing. The husband was away. That didn’t matter to John. He should have known something was wrong, sensed something wrong. He always had before. He was loosing his touch.

Even his dive wasn’t successful, not completely anyway. He took a spill to the floor hoping to break the glasses in his pocket, to activate the GPS panic button in the glasses that Sherlock had selected for him. All he had to do was land on them and they would break, sounding the silent alarm. But that extra shove that Clay gave him pushed him into the counter top instead, letting his face break some of the fall.

Then the kick came, square in the abdomen. It didn’t hurt much. John’s abdominal muscles provided protection. But he splinted as if in pain. Finally something went his way. He curled up, moaned out loudly. He heard laughter. _Go ahead Clay, laugh._ John thought.

Then came another kick, and John twisted around, pulling his ankles in tight, curling his body to hide the action of his hands. He drew the 22 from his ankle holster, and in one fluid motion, rolled and fired at Clay, hitting him squarely between the eyes. Clay dropped with a sickening thud. John finally exhaled, and relaxed against the floor, taking some long needed breaths.

Finding his feet, John righted himself and crawled to Clay. John knew Clay was dead, but the soldier in him stopped to confirm it. A single entry wound to the head. No exit wound. That is the nice thing about a kill shot with a 22, it bounces around inside the skull, not enough power for a through and through shot. Blood leaks out afterward, but not as messy as his Browning would have been. John felt no guilt at the death of Clay.

John rose and kicked Clay’s gun away from the body out of habit. Then he picked his Browning out of Clay’s waistband, and checked the magazine and chamber. He re-holstered his Sig Sauer to his ankle, and was glad of the feel of his 9 mm in his hand.

John took a deep breath and began to clear the building room by room. First the kitchen, the kitchen storage, the loo, the rear hallway, employee lounge, storage closet, the office. The office. In the office was Sherlock’s laptop, closed on the desk. A crushed mobile phone on the floor. He couldn’t be certain, but it looked like Sherlock’s. He looked around. No blood. Thankfully no blood. 

Back out to the hallway, then the front sales area. No signs of forced entry. No Sherlock, no wife. No one else. They were all gone. Who ever had come to the bakery with Clay. Someone did. Someone came with Clay and took Sherlock.

John dashed outside hoping to see some sign of Sherlock. He looked down the street, one way, then the other, but they were empty. No cars, no people, nothing. The air was unsettlingly still.

John ran back inside, pulled out his mobile and dialed Mycroft. “Watson here.” There was silence on the other end and John licked his lips. “They have Sherlock.”

“When?” 

John was a bit incredulous. _When_? “Just now.” John answered. Silence on the other end. “Hello?”

“Are you still at the bakery?”

“Yes. And, emm, Clay is dead. I shot him.”

“We’ll be right there. Stay there.” Then silence.

John hung up the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. His hands went to his face and he wiped his palm from his forehead to his mouth, then he tasted blood. His blood. His hand felt back up to his cheek, where a gash made itself known by its tenderness. John wiped his hand on his jeans, and licked the taste of his blood off his lips.

John purposefully walked back into the office and to the desk. He ran his finger along the top of the laptop and thought about Sherlock. His Sherlock. His Sherlock who, just minutes ago, was here. He was here, where John should have been. And now he was gone.

John fought terrible images of what could be happening to Sherlock. He thought about what he had gone through at the hands of Jim, and he hoped, he prayed, that Sherlock wasn’t experiencing the same treatment, or worse. Sherlock was no stranger to drugs, but sometimes that is worse. Sherlock was an addict. And there is no such thing as a recovered addict. Only a recovering addict. It only took one time. One time and the battle started all over again.

Sherlock had been confident that Jim wouldn’t hurt him. Trying to remember why was difficult right now. Why had Sherlock thought that? Sherlock said that Jim understood him. That he, Sherlock, had _interested Jim_. And he had said something about a game. Playing a game, and not being bored. John’s mind was racing, and none of it was making any sense.

But Sherlock had walked out of here. Hadn’t he? Walked out under his own power. There wasn’t any evidence of a struggle… Wait, but there was. A crushed mobile. But that didn’t mean… that didn’t mean that Sherlock was hurt, or unconscious, or struggling. It was just a mobile. No blood. Nothing overturned. No shouting or gunshots or sounds of a struggle that he had heard. Just a crushed mobile. It could have been an accident. Accidently dropped and stepped on. It could have happened. It could have.

John heard the wail of sirens and he walked towards the front of the bakery. Victor Trevor raced in the door, surprising John. “Hey mate… anything you need to hand over?” It took John a moment to register the question.

“Right, this way.” They dashed into the office, and John pointed to the lap top and mobile. Victor collected both, along with the ruck sac, which he deposited them in before chucking it over his shoulder.

Victor looked amused. As they walked back to bakery entrance, to where the flashing lights of the panda were visible, Victor spoke. “I knew I was right about you…” John looked at him. “You know how to get into the thick of it.” John was not amused, but he was grateful to have a friendly face nearby.

“Listen,” Victor said, “Just go with them to the Yard, don’t say anything, and Mycroft will send representation for you. You’ll be out in a few hours.” John nodded. Christ, he hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t considered the fact that he’d have to make a statement, sit with the met and do nothing while Sherlock was… somewhere… missing… He took a deep breath, and released it.

John knew he’d only have a few moments to pass along a brief report. He quickly and efficiently told Victor about events relative to Sherlock’s disappearance. The rest could wait until later.

DI Dimmock, if his identification was to be believed, was the short serious man who approached John and Victor. Victor pulled out his MI6 identification, and John mirrored his action. Dimmock just huffed. “Of course. You lot think you can just waltz in, do what ever you want, and waltz right back out. So what I am going to find here besides a body?” John remained silent. “Oh, I see, the silent treatment. I should have expected that. Okay you two…” Dimmock pulled out his handcuffs. “Hand over your weapons.” John slowly and carefully pulled his Browning from his waistband, snapped the safety on and handed it over to Dimmock. He then repeated the procedure with his ankle holstered Sig Sauer. Dimmock then looked at Victor.

Victor shook his head. “No sir, not me. I wasn’t here. I’m just came afterwards for moral support. I have nothing to do with this.” He walked away. Dimmock was speechless, then he turned to John. “So, this is your doing then?” John just stared straight ahead. “Right. Hands…” 

John looked at him, “That’s not necessary, is it?” Dimmock considered. He’d dealt with MI6 once or twice before. They were not fond memories. He remembered the way that one name cleared away all the paperwork, stopped all the interrogations, and both opened and closed doors of all types. That name: Mycroft Holmes.

Dimmock shook his head reluctantly, and pocketed his handcuffs. “No… just wait in the car. That one, with the Sergeant next to it.” He pointed. John nodded, walked to the car, and got in the back seat to wait.

**

Sherlock wasn’t sure where they were going, but at least Moran had tucked his pistol back into his waistband while he drove. All Sherlock needed was some trigger happy fool to get nervous and flinch at the wrong moment. And Moran fit Sherlock’s definition of a fool.

The ride wasn’t particularly long, and Sherlock wasn’t feeling too apprehensive. He blocked out the possibility that anything had happened to John as soon as he left the bakery. He had to, there was nothing at all that he could do about it. And he could not let it paralyze him. Mycroft was right. John knew how to handle himself.

The car screeched to a stop so abruptly that Sherlock had to reach forward and brace himself against the windshield to stop him from hitting it. He turned an accusing glare at Moran, and exhaled loudly. Moran grimaced at him and slammed the car into park. He pulled out his pistol. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Get out. And don’t even think of doing anything stupid.”

Sherlock opened the door and unfolded himself. Moran motioned with the gun to the closest house. Sherlock started walking towards it. 

When he reached the front door Sherlock turned and looked back at Moran, who once again motioned with his gun for Sherlock to continue. Sherlock opened the door and entered. Moran followed.

Jim Moriarty looked up from the sofa he was sitting on, then frowned. “Sebastian… what are you doing? Mr. Altamont is a guest here. No need for any of that.” Looking ashamed Moran pointed the gun at the floor, and then tucked it into his waistband. “Mr. Altamont, thank you for coming.” Jim was dripping manners.

He looked Sherlock up and down, a frown forming on his face. “But do tell me, where is your lap top? I expected to see what you did today.” Sherlock sighed, exasperated, rolled his eyes, cocked an eyebrow then looked pointedly at Moran. “Sebastian?....” Jim growled, drawing the name out.

Jim looked at Sebastian, who grew nervous and angry, then paced back and forth in the room. Jim watched him, thinking. “So, tell me, Seb, where is Clay?” His voice had grown soft and dangerous.

Moran threw his arms up in the air. “How the hell do I know where he is!? You told me to bring Altamont here, and he’s here.” He stared at Moriarty with a challenge in his eyes.

“So I did.” Moriarty said. Then he looked at Sherlock. “Can you believe this? All I asked was to bring you here after your job was finished. Easy, you’d think. EASY!” He screamed the last word in anger, his face contorting madly. He took a few deep breaths.

“So, what, you just left Clay there? Left him alone with Watson? If that bastard kills Watson, I’m not bailing him out, not again” He continued pacing. “What did you do that for, Seb?”

Sebastian looked down at the floor. “I called him, he didn’t answer.”

“Oh, poor Sebastian… his little boyfriend didn’t answer the phone, so he stood him up, left without him. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!?” Jim pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and pushed a button. Sherlock could hear enough to realize it went straight to voice mail. Jim frowned, and thumbed another number. “Yeah, listen, I want you to go down to O’Doul’s and check it out.” Jim continued pacing.

“Sebastian…. Sebastian…. What have you done?... dear, dear Sebastian…” Jim was pacing back and forth, then suddenly, lifted his mobile to his ear.

“Emm, yeah, boss… can’t get close to O’Doul’s. Lots of Pandas out there. And a couple of ambulances. Don’t know what’s happening, no one is talking and I don’t want to draw attention to my self.” The voice sounded nervous.

Jim hung up, and slipped the mobile back into his pocket. “Well dear Sebastian… what have you done?...” His voice had become sing song. “Oh welllll.” He grinned a ridiculous smile as he drew the last word out. “When you hear from Clay, tell him we don’t know him. I didn’t tell him to kill Watson. He needs to be taught a lesson, not to go off on his own.”

Jim looked at Sherlock. Sherlock’s head started whirling, his vision was narrowing and his knees were getting weak. _Concentrate. Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t listen to what he says_.

“Ah, Mr. Altamont, I am so sorry. You’ll have to find a new pet.” Jim’s smile did not extend to his eyes. “I’m sure you can find someone else to _help you think_.” Jim laughed manically at that, then looked at Sherlock. “Surely he was too _old_ for you anyways. You ought to please yourself with someone younger.” He glanced up and down Sherlock, and licked his lips meaningfully.

Sherlock was trying to look nonchalant, and not to get sick. Not only at the possibility of John being dead, as Moriarty was implying, but also at the thought of ‘being with’ someone like Moriarty. Someone who organized crime, condone killing without remorse, changed lives, and not in a good way, with a simple phone call, someone unimaginative and… not John.

But he couldn’t look repulsed, not as Altamont. He had to go on and pretend, and not act concerned, and maintain this connection that he had developed with Jim Moriarty. Not only to continue his mission, his quest to find the biggest of the criminal masterminds, but also to assure that he would get out of this house alive. If he blew his cover, mourned John too much, appeared as if he were going to go to the police, he would be in danger, he would never leave the house alive. Or if he did, he’d not be free for long.

“Sooo…” Jim was watching Sherlock closely. “Care for some tea?”

“Please.” Sherlock wasn’t thirsty, and didn’t want to have tea, but he needed something for his hands to do while he picked the right time to announce that he was leaving. His mind was racing, thinking of plausible excuses for not sticking around, his computer being absent for one, no way to show Jim any work. And he’d have to retrieve his lap top. And get a new phone, and check messages for any new business. Those are all things a young entrepreneur would be concerned about. After all, business was their only connection.

Sherlock noticed that Moriarty had not offered tea to Moran. Moran was standing by the window, staring out. Was he a sentinel? Did Moran not drink tea? Or was this a way of disciplining Moran for botching a job? Sherlock, for once, was not sure.

When his tea was almost finished, and Sherlock didn’t dawdle, he rose. “Thanks for the tea. I need to run now, collect my computer and all.” He displayed what he hoped was a natural looking smile.

Moriarty grinned at him, and the grin looked… _evil_. There was no other word for it. Sherlock felt a cold chill run down his neck. He started walking towards the door, and Moran quickly blocked it with his body, no hint of a smile on his face. Sherlock turned and looked back at Moriarty. Moriarty took another sip of tea, then started talking.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that can’t happen, it simply can’t. You can’t go back to the bakery with the _police_ ” he spat the word “there.” 

Sherlock looked at him and shrugged nonchalantly. “All right. I’ll wait until tomorrow and go back. Oh, and I need a new phone too. Mine got stomped on.” He looked accusingly at Moran. Moriarty squealed with delight.

“No, no, my dear boy. Don’t you see, you can’t go back. Now your name is at a crime scene, on your lap top and your phone. You’ll be arrested, charged, and I don’t want to see that happen.” Moriarty’s smile could best be described as greasy. Sherlock was starting to worry what Moriarty meant. He knew that Moriarty was expecting to be able to influence a young Altamont, it was clear in the inane arguments that he was using. Surely he didn’t expect Altamont to buy that argument.

“All right. I suppose I could get a new lap top too. There is a new one out that I’ve been looking at anyways.” He once again turned towards the door. Moran stood in the way. Sherlock turned to appeal to Moriarty.

Moriarty stood, and turned serious. “Sebastian, did you frisk him before you brought him here?” Moriarty shook his head minutely. Sherlock did not like the way Moriarty’s face changed, it was like a mask of perversion overtook it. “Oh, that is too bad.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Then _I’ll_ just have to do it.” He slowly glided to Sherlock, his gaze ghosting over Sherlock’s body. He stopped directly in front of Sherlock, and crouched down, placed his hands on each side of his left ankle, and caressed slowly up his leg, to his shin, his knees, his thighs, and into his groin, feeling Sherlock, and rubbing up and down on him several times, raising his chin to look at Sherlock’s face for a reaction. Sherlock was repulsed and sickened, and glad that he had stayed soft. “Oh dear boy, really?” Moriarty harassed. Then he repeated the same on the other side, stopping again to tease Sherlock, then continuing up his waist, and chest, ending by rubbing his hands across Sherlock’s chest, standing very close. “There are a lot of things I could teach you boy.” He looked suggestively into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock just stood silent.

Moriarty started to laugh, and he looked at Moran. “I think we should find somewhere for Altamont to stay tonight. I wouldn’t mind if he stayed in my bed, but I don’t think he’d stay there.” Moriarty trailed a finger over Sherlock’s cheek. “Maybe downstairs. He could be persuaded to stay there.”

Moran pulled his pistol out of his waistband and pointed it at Sherlock. Moriarty moved to a door, opened it, and flipped on a light switch. It was a set of stairs. Moran pushed Sherlock with the gun, and Sherlock moved forward, and started down the stairs. At the bottom of the stair case was a short hallway with 2 more doors, one to the left and one straight ahead. The door straight ahead had two bolds that could be slid across the door jamb and locked. Moran pushed Sherlock on again, and pointed to the door directly in front of them. Sherlock tried the handle, and it turned.

The door opened into a small room. Sherlock fumbled around on the wall, and found a switch, and turned on the light. The room was small and dank, void of windows, with a bed frame and mattress, and a toilet off to the side. There was a pillow and one thin blanket, but no sheets or other amenities.

Sherlock knew that he was in trouble. This room was obviously created to keep someone against their will. Sherlock wondered how many others had been forced to stay down there… and what their fates were. He remembered Mycroft’s revelation of the past of Richard Brook involving a ten year old boy and he felt sick. Then he felt the nudge of the gun against his back once again. “In you go….”

Sherlock had no choice but to take a few more steps forward. He was defenseless against an ex-military sniper with a gun, while he had only his wits. Not that his wits were insignificant, but they needed to be used at the right time, and in the proper circumstances.

“You should consider yourself lucky, you know.” Sherlock turned to gaze at Moran. “He has taken a liking to you. If he hadn’t…” Sherlock knew how _that_ sentence ended.

“I’m not feeling lucky at the moment.”

Moran found that funny, so he laughed, and then backed out of the room. The door shut, and Sherlock heard the sound of two bolts being slid home. After the footsteps on the stairs ceased, and another door shut, Sherlock advanced to the door in front of him and tried the handle. The handle turned, but the door would not budge.

**

Moriarty was looking at Moran, considering, not for the first time, how he sometimes managed to cause Jim more trouble than anyone else. Moran was intelligent enough… well, at least he wasn’t gormless. He wasn’t intelligent like Jim was, or like that kid Altamont was. Nothing close to that. But he usually used his brain.

Except when he didn’t. Like that time he shot both the twins, rather than wait until they separated for the day. That had ruined everything, all because Moran was impatient, and didn’t think collateral damage would be an issue. And when he set the warehouse on fire rather than search for the file in the office. If he had searched, he’d have known it wasn’t there, and known that he needed to find where it was.

And of course, days like today, when he panicked and dashed from a scene before he cleaned everything up. Stupid, stupid. How that man ever became a colonel in the army was beyond Jim.

The worst of it was that Jim was forced to clean up after the man. If left to himself, Moran would have been in prison long ago. And for some unfathomable reason, Jim liked having him around.

So now Jim was left to wonder what to do with Altamont. He couldn’t keep him locked in the basement forever. Surely Altamont would figure a way out, likely one that involved outwitting Moran. Maybe he could convince Altamont to partner fully with himself. Imagine what the two of them together could do. That was an enticing and inebriating thought…

Moriarty sat down. The trouble, however, with the intelligent ones, is they could turn. Altamont might consider himself smarter than Jim, and then what? Jim had seen that happen too many times before. Most of the time it wasn’t the smart ones that did that, it was the idiots. That simplified things as they were easy to discover and exterminate. However, when the smart ones turned, they caused chaos. Altamont would be like that. Young, good looking, and intelligent… a good ally but a more dangerous rival. And it could go either way at any time.

No, Altamont couldn’t stay long. Jim would keep him for a few days to talk to, and to extract ideas out of. Jim enjoyed the game. Then he’d have Moran take care of him, and the problem would simply disappear. He couldn’t let him walk… too many loose ends.


	9. Chapter 9

Victor Trevor had been right: John was out of custody in just a few hours. 

He had been brought down to New Scotland Yard by DI Dimmock himself, and despite the circumstances, couldn't help but be impressed with the beautiful reflective building. He was marched inside, fortunately not in handcuffs, and brought to an interrogation room. He sat there for a while before Dimmock joined him and attempted to question him. John was not new to interrogation techniques, having been a soldier, and more so because he had spent two weeks with the Afghanistan rebels as a POW. Not knowing John’s history, Dimmock misinterpreted John’s stoic reactions as arrogance, and quickly grew angry. Fortunately for Dimmock, they were interrupted by the gentle but insistent rap on the door by Mycroft’s solicitor. John was not bothered again, and in a couple of hours, his weapons were returned to him, not by Dimmock, and he was in a cab back to Baker Street.

John paid his cabbie, and bounded up the stairs. His heart grew light as he saw the door to the flat ajar. That genius had escaped! “Sherlock!” He cried out as he entered, expecting a happy reunion. Instead he was greeted by the sight of Mycroft sitting in Sherlock’s arm chair, umbrella propped next to the chair, face blank. John stopped dead in his tracks.

“John.” Mycroft’s greetings were always polite, and usually brief.

“Mr. Holmes…” John reverted to the formal name due to the circumstances. Had he suspected it was a social visit, he would have just called him Mycroft. John’s stomach was suddenly turning inside out, and he swore that he could actually hear his heart beating.

Mycroft rose, and in a role reversal, asked John if he cared for any tea. John then saw the tea set, the formal one that Sherlock rarely used, on the table between the arm chairs. Mycroft had already made tea and had a poured himself a cup for himself. John simply said “Yes, thank you.” But the voice that came out of his mouth did not sound like his own.

Mycroft poured the cup for John, and glided towards the door where John was. He offered the cup, and when John didn’t move, he actually wrapped John’s hands around it, then guided him to a chair.

John came to himself, and thanked Mycroft. With his eyes, he asked Mycroft what he knew.

In a manner hauntingly like Sherlock, Mycroft placed his fingers together and tented them in front of his chin in a thought filled pose. “Unfortunately John, I have little news to pass along to you.” He sat silent for a few moments. “Perhaps it would be beneficial for you to report in detail to me now.”

John nodded. Taking a deep breath, he recounted the events at the bakery. He was now quite good at recounting conversations verbatim, which impressed Mycroft. Mycroft would have preferred that all his agents report conversations verbatim, but it seemed that, despite his encouragements, very few of them actually did.

Mycroft nodded at several points through the narrative, as if John had just confirmed something Mycroft already knew. When John was finished, Mycroft sat perfectly still, his fingers still tented in front of his chin. Had John not known Sherlock, he would have believed that Mycroft was daydreaming. Mycroft stayed that way for perhaps twenty minutes, then, as if a switch was flipped, he started moving again. “I can not see it.” Mycroft uttered. John spoke enough Holmes to know that meant that Mycroft needed more facts, or needed to see the information in a different way.

So John, being John, started asking questions and offering suggestions of what ever came to his mind. They bantered back and forth for several minutes when John said aloud “Someone has to know this Moriarty character… humph… although they probably know him as Brook, or some other alias.”

Mycroft straightened up, which John wouldn’t have believed possible if he hadn’t seen it himself. Mycroft always sat straight, stiff as a board. And John knew what that meant. Mycroft had realized something. He had the same reaction that Sherlock did when he had a sudden revelation. John looked hopefully at Mycroft, who was pulling out his mobile.

“Yes, I need you to access the Woodley file. I’ll wait.” Mycroft’s nervousness was evident, even glaring, to John’s eye. To anyone else Mycroft was simply tapping an index finger on his thigh.

“Yes, thank you. Can you confirm a name for me. From an interrogation dated August 24, 2003… Yes… The name of the gentleman he was with, please… Yes… Can you spell that?... I see… Thank you.” Mycroft worked his thumbs on his phone, and brought it back up to his ear. “McMurdo? Mycroft Holmes. I need you to assemble your team and meet me for surveillance 1 block east of a particular residence. I’ll text you the address. Situation 45, urgent.” John was already rising, feeling for his guns. Mycroft’s thumbs were working quickly. Then he lifted the mobile to his ear again. “Lestrade? Mycroft Holmes. Where are you?... I may need your assistance. Can you bring two officers with you?...” He named an intersection. “As soon as you can… Yes.”

Mycroft rose, grabbed his umbrella, and moved rapidly towards the stairways, followed by John. At the bottom of the stairs, a black sedan was waiting. The ride was a quick one. John could have sworn that they hit every traffic light perfectly. He didn’t remember stopping for a single one. Since Mycroft was issuing directives via text, John did not even have a chance to learn of Mycroft’s revelation in the flat. Had he been able to ask, he would have learned that Woodley, the limping man from the political gala, had know Richard Brook ten years prior.

At their destination, McMurdo and five other agents were already at work. Edwards was operating a wall-penetrating thermal camera, vivid images of reds and blues and yellows distinctly revealing the activity in the building in question. Barker and Mason were strapping on bullet proof vests, cinching the protection tightly on. Douglas was talking on his mobile, making notes on his tablet, and Shafter was operating a toaster-sized piece of equipment that John was unfamiliar with. In the distance, Lestrade and two uniformed officers were quickly approaching in silence, stern and seious expressions on their faces.

McMurdo padded over to Mycroft and John. “The address in question is that one,” McMurdo pointed down the block. “The white one with a brick walk. We have been here roughly fifteen minutes and have seen no one enter or leave. Edwards was able to pick up three heat signatures when we first arrived, although there are only two there now.” Lestrade hurried to their impromptu conference, and nodded his greeting.

Mycroft looked at McMurdo. “Explain the heat signatures. You said no one left the building.”

“I think that Edwards can explain better than I can. EWARDS!” McMurdo hollered the last word.

Edwards rushed over. “Sir?”

“Mr. Holmes has a question for you.”

Edwards redirected his attention to Mycroft. “Sir?”

“Agent Edwards… Agent McMurdo informed me that there were three heat signatures when you first scanned, now there are two. And that no one has left the premises. Explain.”

Edwards nodded and considered. Then he started “Thermal imaging is the detection of infrared radiation, in the form of waves, in the infrared band of the electromagnetic spectrum. Thermal imagers typically can not penetrate external walls or glass. However, experimental imagers, such as this one, have been developed which bypass this limitation. I don’t understand it completely, but it has something to do with canceling out the reflective wavelength with the same wavelength, but with opposite crests and troughs.”

Mycroft nodded in understanding, encouraging Edwards to continue.

“One of the limitations of thermal imaging is that sometimes the heat of a body can leave a residual image, in the form of infrared radiation, even after the body is gone. So it would, theoretically, be possible for two bodies to produce three images. However, I observed all three images in motion, rendering that explanation impossible.”

“The body may also be shielded from the imager by something that can not be penetrated, such as lead. A safe room, for example. Or perhaps a room that we can not image due to the angle of the camera, such as a basement. Or, I imagine, once someone is dead and their body cools, it would no longer be visible with the thermal imager.”

John was listening to the discussion, and interrupted at this point. “You said you have only been here fifteen minutes? No, that would be too short of a time for a body to cool off enough to no longer show a heat signature.” 

“Ah, good.” Mycroft relaxed a bit. “So what you are saying is that you are reasonably certain that there are three people in the building, even though we now only see two images.”

Edwards nodded. “Barring something like an underground exit, yes.”

“Thank you.” Edwards took his leave. Mycroft leaned against his umbrella, which was planted on the ground, and was silent for a few minutes. McMurdo was familiar with Mycroft, so he waited patiently until the man finished processing the information.

Mycroft had to weigh their reactions very carefully. The information and assumptions that they were working upon were tentative at best, and the wrong reaction, whether over or under reacting, could be disastrous. He thought about the incomplete assumptions…

One… Sherlock was presumed kidnapped. No one witnessed the kidnapping. The only evidence for it was Sherlock’s absence coupled with his leaving his laptop and crushed mobile behind. Mycroft would be the first to admit that Sherlock would not leave his laptop and mobile behind voluntarily, not without serious extenuating circumstances. But it was a leap between _missing_ and _kidnapped and held against one’s will_.

Two… The possibility that Sherlock was at _this_ address was based on loose connections of a presumed criminal, Woodley, with an alias, Richard Brook, from ten years ago, and that Woodley had been seen visiting this address several times in the last few weeks by Mycroft’s men. Plus, the additional connection that Sherlock recently had conversations with Moriarty, AKA Brook. Those were two big leaps of logic… that this address was connected with Moriarty, and that Moriarty was the one who kidnapped Sherlock.

But, at least they knew that Richard Brook was Jim Moriarty. One solid fact amongst a sea of assumptions. Not a very solid footing to launch a rescue mission from.

“We need to keep this operation as low key as possible.” Mycroft stated. “Our intelligence is speculative, but this is the best lead we have.” Mycroft started pacing, clearly agitated and uncomfortable with the situation. McMurdo waited patiently. “Indications are that James Moriarty, alias Richard Brook, _may_ , and I stress _may_ , inhabit this residence. Mr. Moriarty, with his accomplice Sebastian Moran, are suspected in having a hand in the disappearance of my brother Sherlock, only hours ago.” McMurdo stiffened. Kidnapping and hostage situations are emotional enough without the victim being known personally, much less being the younger brother of the head of the department. “Seeing three moving thermal images just minutes ago is a hopeful sign. Sherlock is undercover, and if at all possible, we need to maintain that cover. So we will issue no large raids unless absolutely necessary. Now we need a tactical plan. What are the options and your recommendation?” He was speaking to McMurdo. Mycroft believed in using the skill and knowledge of the experts he employed. However, ultimately, the final decision was Mycroft’s.

McMurdo considered. “Have there been any demands?”

“None.”

McMurdo started thinking aloud. “We have the element of surprise. That is a big advantage, and one we have to utilize… We need to analyze the thermal images and be fairly certain of the identity of each image… And hopefully we will be able to locate a third image… If there was some way to divide the suspects, draw one or both of them out and away from the…” McMurdo chose the next work carefully, and decided to keep it as impartial as he could, “… _target_ , that would be ideal. Certainly the safest option for the target.”

Mycroft considered McMurdo’s words. “I noticed that one of your agents is monitoring the mobile signals.” John realized that Mycroft meant the toaster sized piece of electronics.

“Yes, Shafter, sir.”

“If I remember correctly,” and Mycroft always remembered correctly, “that particular piece of technology allows us to hack into and connect with mobile cellular devices.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“So it would allow us to call or text the mobiles that are in that residence.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft nodded.

McMurdo, Mycroft, John and Lestrade put their heads together and came up with the following plan based upon their discussion. Edwards would continue his thermal surveillance and attempt to differentiate the heat signatures based on physical characteristics; Moriarty being small and slight, Moran being tall and more bulky. It was assumed that the most likely image to be hidden from the imager (and any physical search that the property could be subject to) was Sherlock.

Shafter would access the mobiles. His equipment would allow him to identify the mobile’s number. They could then track the owner of the mobile, if the mobiles were registered in their own name. The working assumption was that Moriarty and Moran would be identified. If different suspects were identified, the mission would be stalled and more information would need to be gathered.

Assuming Moran and Moriarty were identified, a text would be sent to entice one or both of the suspects to leave the residence. Splitting up the suspects would be preferable, safer, and getting them to leave separately would be preferable. Then they would enter the residence with minimal risk and look for Sherlock.

If at all possible, Sherlock’s cover should be maintained. Every effort would be made to minimize the number of agents apparently involved. Cooperation with the Met via Lestrade may aid in this. If they were able to lure one or both of the kidnappers away, they would need to keep them away by whatever means were at their disposal, even if it meant arresting the suspects for manufactured crimes.

Barker and Mason would be providing cover for the front of the residence, and Douglas for the rear. They had the go-ahead for a kill shot if Sherlock’s or any of the agents or civilians lives were in immanent danger. McMurdo would be coordinating via their wireless closed communication system.

Part of the task, in this case, was to try to maintain Sherlock’s cover. With this goal in mind, John was the preferred agent to make any physical take-downs in residence if they needed to be done. As Altamont’s minder, it was completely in character, and believable, that he would be the one to find Sherlock.

After this had been decided between Mycroft, McMurdo, Lestrade, and John, the rest of the team was assembled and briefed. The tension increased visibly when they learned that Sherlock was involved. None of them, with the exception of John, were particular fans of Sherlock’s, but they all had a great deal of respect for his skills and abilities.

When everyone understood their role, they set to work. Edwards had continued to image the house while plans were made, and the third form never returned. He had, however, been able to distinguish the small slight form, assumed to be Moriarty, from the bulkier form of Moran. The two forms were never far from each other, and as the hours ticked away, it was decided that they needed to go ahead and try to separate the two suspects, and try to lure one or both out of the house. They had to assume that Sherlock was in danger, since at least 1 attempt had been made on John by the pair.

Shafter had tracked the cell signals from the house, and the phones were not registered. However, Shafter indentified the numbers. He sent a ring signal to one of the phones, and saw the smaller figure move on the thermal imager, as if answering a phone. Mycroft had devised a text message that he believed would lure Moriarty out, so it was sent to that number. After about five minutes, a small suited man exited via the front door, and walked away from the residence, in the opposite direction from the surveillance team. Lestrade sent one of his men to tail Moriarty, and to keep the team abreast of his location.

Mycroft crafted a second message, and passed it along to Shafter to send to Moran’s phone. After several attempts and some trouble shooting, Shafter determined that Moran’s phone was either turned off or its batteries had run down. There was no way to get a text to him. Mycroft approached John, who had been watching the thermal imaging camera over Edwards’ shoulder.

“Captain Watson,” John stood at attention without realizing it. “We have a limited window of opportunity to extract our target.” Mycroft was careful to maintain his emotional distance via his language. “Moriarty will not stay away long, and Moran’s phone is off line. It is time to act. Are you prepared?” John Watson was a man of action; he was made for covert missions and spontaneous execution of duties. He had been preparing his mind since arriving at the site, and was focused. McMurdo had been advising him regarding approaches and exit routes, so even the details had been worked out, at least as well as they could.

“Yes sir.” John slipped his jumper over his head, leaving on a fitted t-shirt tucked into his jeans. He pulled out his Browning and checked the magazine and slide, then repeated the action with his ankle holstered Sig. 

Edwards was consulted one last time, pinpointing Moran’s location. He was in the front sitting room, lounging in a chair or sofa, feet up. He was moving, so apparently not asleep. John would enter the residence through a rear window already noted to be open, and attempt to approach Moran undetected, and incapacitate him.

John inserted an ear piece, checked it with McMurdo, and when communications were established, circled around the block to approach the residence from the rear.

The window in the rear that John targeted was open, making entry easy. He had to quietly remove a screen to be able to wiggle through, and did this successfully, with only a small scraping sound escaping when he first pulled at the screen. He placed the screen on the ground outside the window, hiked himself up onto the sill, and rolled into the rear bedroom.

John stood silently for a minute, listening for any evidence that he had been heard. McMurdo spoke into his ear. “Suspect still seated in same location. No movement detected. Target location still unknown.”

John pulled his gun out of his waistband and clicked the safety off. He had to work his way up to the front of the residence to confront Moran. He was obviously in a bedroom, neat and orderly, without any personal items displayed. He glanced around quickly, more out of training and habit than any expectation, and advanced to the door.

Knowing that Moran was still in the front room could have made John lazy, but his caution and instinct took over and he stealthily crept up the hallway. There was another bedroom, looking more occupied, to the right, which he passed by. The hallway opened into a spacious room, with a fireplace, armchair, and sofa, and a desk with a small lamp on it in the corner. To the right of the room loomed a doorway, which John guessed opened into the kitchen. On the sofa, John could see the back of the head of a man with short buzzed hair.

John held his Browning in both hands, pointed at the man, and sidestepped into the room. When he got partway into the room, the man turned slowly and glared at John.


	10. Chapter 10

Both men looked at each other for a minute. Moran’s face was stony and grim. Then Moran forced a smile and spoke between clenched teeth. “Captain Watson, so nice to see you again.” His voice was insincere.

“Sorry… I don’t think we’ve met.” John had not seen Moran at the coffee house; he had been drugged senseless by the time Moran made an appearance.

“I’m hurt that I made so small an impression on you, Captain. We met at the CTCRM several years back.” John was searching his memory, then had a vague recollection of some sniper sessions that he had attended. “Ah, I see that you remember… good.”

“I’m not here for small talk, I want you to stand…. slowly. And I want to see your hands!” Moran looked at John, gauging his state of mind. Deciding that John was not bluffing, he lifted his hands, and slowly rose to his feet. He turned to face John. “Good.” John said calmly. “Where is your gun?”

“What gun?”

“I’m not playing games here! … I could just shoot you…” John had started loud, but his voice became much quieter when he uttered the second sentence. His hands were steady, his gun still pointed straight at Moran.

“You wouldn’t do that.” Moran sounded confident.

“Wouldn’t I?” John laughed, and there was just a hint of mania in it. “After all the games you’ve played… drugging me… the note sent by Jim… Clay today… taking Altamont… I’m done with the games. Not playing…”If you don’t toss your gun down, I will shoot you.”

Moran considered further, then yielded. He showed his right hand, then started reaching around his back and into his waistband. “Slowly!” John yelled, and Moran hesitated, then continued to move, but more slowly and smoothly. He pulled out a Baretta 92FS. “Drop it!” Moran did so, continuing to hold John’s gaze. “Good, now kick it towards me.” Moran scowled, but did as John instructed.

John smiled, a sinister tinge to his expression. “What else do you have on you?”

Moran glared. “Nothing.”

“Show me.”

Moran lifted up his shirt, and turned around. “Look, Watson, no harm meant. I’ll just go and get him, and…”

“Stop!” John yelled. Moran froze. John didn’t want Moran to just get Sherlock and walk free. That would be too easy on Moran. He wanted to hurt him. Bad. Not kill him, that would be too quick. He wanted Moran to suffer, to feel pain, realize and experience agony worse than he had ever known before. Not only for what John went through at their hands, but also for Moran’s involvement in Sherlock’s kidnapping. Thoughts of revenge were taking over his mind, pushing aside thoughts of his mission.

Then, as if he was privy to John’s most private thoughts, McMurdo’s voice came through his earpiece. “Watson, just incapacitate Moran and get Holmes out of there.”

John’s thoughts came back to the task in front of him. Moran was facing him, hands in the air, eyes glued on John, analyzing his expression, and not liking what he was seeing. Moran seemed to sense that John was almost over the edge, ready to burst.

John, at the same time, had returned his thoughts to the mission. Incapacitate Moran and retrieve Sherlock. The means of incapacitation had been left up to John, depending on the circumstances he found himself in. John could shoot him, a non-lethal shot. Being a doctor, John knew better than most where to place a kill shot versus one meant just to disable. John also knew the most painful targets in the body, and the ones that would cause the most long term disability. But John had dismissed that method almost immediately, and had decided he wanted to take Moran on in hand to hand combat.

John would try to convince himself later that he wanted a fair fight, and that shooting someone who wasn’t armed was not sporting, and he was a fair man. It was true that Moran was a good two stones heavier than John, but heavier did not mean better. Moran had been out of the service for three years, and had obviously not kept himself in shape. It was a fair fight, but one he was unwilling to lose.

John’s therapist, had he still been seeing her, would have had a field day with his decision. She would know that his decision was made as a penance, for the guilt that he felt that he had failed to protect himself at the coffee shop, and failed to protect Sherlock at the Bakery. She would have said that he wanted to experience the pain associated with a physical fight, and that just shooting the opponent would not satisfy his need to feel pain as the tangible form of the guilt that he was harboring. John was punishing himself.

Moran had been in tight situations before, and had gotten out of them. He wasn’t a stupid man, and he had to try what he could to even the odds. He knew John’s type, seen many of them in the military, men who joined because they wanted to help, to make a difference. They were basically good men, and he found it easy to manipulate good men. “Watson… look… I was just following orders…” He was watching John’s expression closely, knowing he was close to going the wrong direction. “Just put your weapon down and I’ll take you to him…”

John was glaring at him, and his weapon still trained on the colonel.

“I didn’t want to do it… he made me… Moriarty made me…”

“Shut up! Shut! Up!” John interrupted him. John knew what Moran was doing, knew that the sniper was trying to manipulate him. What Moran didn’t know was that John was willing to be pushed, waiting to be challenged.

“You can’t just shoot me… I’m unarmed. It wouldn’t be a fair fight…” It was as if that was what John was waiting for.

“A fair fight… you want a fair fight!?” John’s voice was angry. “I don’t think you know what a fair fight is…” John licked his lips, glanced away for a second, then refocused on Moran. “Okay, I’ll give you a fair fight. What will it be… no weapons?”

Moran couldn’t believe his ears. How stupid could Watson be? It wasn’t a fair fight. Moran looked at the smaller man in front of him. Moran had much more experience, he was a colonel after all, a sniper, he had seen much more action than this… this doctor pretending to be a soldier, an officer in rank only, and only because he was a doctor. Moran was confident, so very confident. “No weapons.” He agreed.

John lowered his Browning and flicked the safety on. He walked to the desk, keeping his eye on Moran, and set the weapon down. In his ear, he heard McMurdo “Watson, what is going on?… Do you copy?” John ignored the voice. He wanted this.

Moran grinned widely, and smugly raised his fists. John jumped lightly on his toes, taking up a sparring stance. The two men circled each other. Moran was first to move, stepping forward with a couple of jabs. John stepped lightly to the side and avoided the blows. Moran tried again, trying to keep his distance to use his arm length to his advantage, but John deftly side stepped the attack. Then John attacked, closing the distance, then a quick one-two combination. Moran deflected the first jab, but the second one made contact, right to Moran’s chin, and Moran glared at John after he straightened up.

John had learned long ago how to compensate for his height disadvantage. One of his favorite methods against tall opponents was to use his feet. He gave a couple of quick kicks to Moran’s abdomen, then pulled back. He circled around Moran.

On the thermal imaging camera, McMurdo, Mycroft and Lestrade were watching what was happening on the screen. The two hot images, when still and apart, could be differentiated. When circling, moving, or close to each other, despite the size difference between the opponents,the action was difficult to interpret. All the support agents knew was that there was a fight going on. It was impossible to tell exactly what else was happening.

Each of the men had made direct strikes to their opponents. John focused many of his moves to Moran’s head and face, Moran tried to concentrate his attention on John’s left shoulder, but quickly gave that up as a couple of direct hits there didn’t seem to phase John, redirecting his attention to John’s face as well. It was a very personal fight after all.

John should have known better than to hold back on some of his moves. It was okay when sparing with a partner, but doing it with a combat opponent was a dangerous game. John had wanted some pain, some punishment for his perceived shortcomings. But then Moran surprised him, took him down flat on his back, and pounced, pummeling John in the face. He got in a good 4 or 5 blows before John reacted, kicking him off with both feet, and jumping up, shaking his head to try to clear it. He could hear Moran laughing in the distance as he tried to focus his vision, a bit unsteady on his feet, and Moran used his advantage by giving John a quick couple of kicks in the abdomen. John bent over, gasping, the air knocked out of him, but his head had cleared, and his anger had billowed. He thought he heard his name shouted in his ear a few times, but was unsure.

John corralled his anger, and started a focused attack on the colonel. All of his rage, his guilt, his suppressed frustration were concentrated in a fury of arms and legs which struck out at the taller man, punishing him, taking him to the ground. Repeated kicks, and jabs at the prone man came exploding out of John, and had someone not intervened, he would have killed Moran. Though his ear piece, John heard the Iceman, crisp and clear, command “Watson! Stand down!”

John stopped, panting, bending over with his hands on is knees, trying to regain his breath and composure. His eyes wandered over to his opponent, writhing slightly on the ground. His focus returned to his mission. _Sherlock_.

John sprinted over to the desk, retrieved his gun, slipped the safety off, and surveyed the room. Archway to kitchen, archway to the hall, door…. Door! John ran to the door and it opened to a stairways going down. Taking them two at a time, John was at the bottom in just a couple of seconds. There were two doors, one to the left, and one, a bit further along, straight ahead. He opened the door to the left, and saw a passage way that disappeared to the darkness. _Shit! An underground escape passage_! John had a sickening sensation in his stomach with the realization that Sherlock may have been smuggled out under their noses. Then he looked at the second door, and saw that there were two bolts across the door, and his spirits lifted a bit. He glanced up the stair, confirming that no one was behind him, and quickly walked to the locked door and shouted “Sherlock? Sherlock!?”

“John!” He could hear Sherlock’s voice, and his heart lightened. His fingers didn’t want to work the bolts, the pain of the fight erupting through the adrenaline. His knuckles had begun to swell and bruise, and tiny cuts were seeping. He fumbled with both of the bolts, finally managing to slide them free. Sherlock opened the door and looked out.

John was thankful that the man in front of him appeared unhurt. Sherlock, on the other hand, was shocked at the sight in front of him. Left eye swollen shut, blood flowing from John’s nose and the corner of his mouth, and the tinge of red and blue under the skin everywhere, knuckles swollen and bleeding. John motioned with his head for Sherlock to follow. They ran up the stairs, and stopped momentarily at the sight of Moran. Sherlock’s smile lit up his face in pride as he looked at John. In his ear, John heard Mycroft instruct “go out the back, go to Baker Street, or the hospital, John, if you must.”

For the first time since entering the residence, John keyed his mic and responded. “Copy. On to Baker Street.”

He looked around again. Buildings of this era usually had a door to the alley through the kitchen. He walked briskly into the kitchen, and approached the rear door. Sherlock was following, and the two of them escaped out into the street.

Fortunately they were not far from Baker Street. It took them less than an hour to walk back. No cab would have been willing to stop for them the way that John looked. They mounted the stairs to the flat, and at the top of the stairs, Sherlock put his hand on John’s shoulder and spun him around.

Sherlock’s eyes surveyed the damage, and grimaced. He gingerly put a hand behind John’s neck and gave his a soft kiss. John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock and kissed him back harder, then he started to laugh as an “OW!” escaped from his lips. The corner of Sherlock’s lip hitched up, John tried again, a bit gentler this time, and the two shared soft kisses for a few moments. Then Sherlock opened the door and they bolted into the flat.

John went to the bath room, stripped his t-shirt, and realized that his favorite jumper had been left at the surveillance sight. He winced as he worked the shirt over his head, stretching the neck of his t-shirt to limit its contact with his swollen and puffy face. Looking in the mirror, John marveled at the colors present on his arms and chest, his muscles and bruises reminding him vividly of his recent adventure. Pressing gently against his ribs, he found several bruised one maybe-cracked rib, but nothing broken. Sherlock was watching over his shoulder in the mirror.

John grabbed a flannel, soaked it, and started to dab at his face when Sherlock reached in and took over the task. John turned, allowing Sherlock easy access, and Sherlock, gentler than John thought he could be, slowly cleaned the drips and smeared of blood from John’s face and neck. Sherlock’s face radiated concern, and he catalogued every cut and bruise, his face being more open and full of expression than John had ever seen before. John sat contentedly and let Sherlock switch roles with him, letting Sherlock take care of him for once.

Sherlock rinsed out the flannel, and he filled the sink with warm water. He submerged John’s hands gently in the water, and massaged the dried blood free. He then gently patted John’s hands dry, starting with his left hand, and kissed each knuckle and each finger tip on both his hands. John found the action incredibly arousing, and by the time Sherlock was working on John’s right hand, John was half hard. Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes, and saw that they were dilated, and he smiled, kissing the palm of John’s hand, then licking at it, swirling his tongue as he did so. John hummed, and closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation. Sherlock slipped John’s index finger into his mouth and sucked gently, and John moaned.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. Sherlock considered ignoring it, looking at the desire on John’s face, but instead he took a deep breath and answered it, despite being certain who would be on the other end.

“I take it that you and Captain Watson made it safely home?” 

“You would know since I’m sure you had someone following us.”

Mycroft hummed noncommittally. “We need to convene and debrief. Can you be at the Diogenes club in an hour?”

Sherlock hesitated, surprised that it was a question rather than an order. “No, sorry, can’t do… John has wounds that need to be attended to.”

“And I suppose that will take _all nigh_ t to do.” Mycroft quipped, but good-naturedly.

“Jealous?”

“Hardly… I’ll send a car for you tomorrow morning at nine sharp.”

“Fine.” Sherlock hung up, smiling to himself. He looked over at John, and his heart melted. He picked up John’s hand, and resumed what he started.

If anyone thought that _make up_ sex was good, it’s only because they never had _I’ve just been rescued from a psychopath_ sex…

**

After the debriefing at the Diogenes Club regarding the events of the previous day, McMurdo, Lestrade, Sherlock and John stayed in the Strangers Room unwinding. Unlike many co-workers, these four men actually liked each other, a distinct advantage when you have to trust your colleagues with your life. Mycroft had excused himself abruptly at the top of the hour, on to his next meeting, the next of several through out the day

“I’m not sure Mr. Holmes believed your explanation of why you put down your gun to fight Moran.” McMurdo chided John good humouredly.

“Yeah, a bit lame, but it was the best I could come up with on the spot. I couldn’t say that I just wanted to beat the shit out of him.” McMurdo and Lestrade laughed. “I’ll have to say though, looking back at the recording of the thermal, I don’t remember most of the fight. I remember the beginning, and some of the moves in the middle, but I honestly don’t remember being down on the ground, or when I started pummeling Moran. I was just going on pure adrenaline.”

“It’s a good thing that Mr. Holmes stopped you when he did. Moran didn’t move for quite a while after you left. I bet he heard a bit about it when Moriarty returned… It was odd, really. I couldn’t tell which of you was which most of the time, the way you were circling, your images just superimposed over each other and blended together on the screen. Mr. Holmes acted like he knew exactly what was going on and who was who at all times.” McMurdo said.

“It was obvious.” Sherlock interposed. They all scoffed at him. “It was; you’re telling me you couldn’t follow that on screen?” They ignored him.

Lestrade stepped in. “I really think when Mycroft ordered you to stand down that he was hoping you were the one standing. I mean, he said it like he was positive, but how could he have been? You were bent over, not even standing up straight, and another figure was on the ground. I didn’t know who was who.” Sherlock huffed.

“I had to do it. People like Moran, they only understand one language. I had to speak his language. I couldn’t keep having them run over us… not if we are to keep working undercover. Maybe he’ll respect me, us, a bit more.” They were all silent for a moment.

“AND…” Lestrade had been waiting to get onto this line of conversation, “Why do you always have to show off and get your face all beat up for Sherlock?” McMurdo looked confused at this. “Can’t you just do a job and not have to prove how hard you’ve worked at it? You’re making the rest of us look bad.” He smiled as he said this. “God John, ever time I see you, you’ve got a black eye, bruises all over, or whatever. The girls would have loved it…” McMurdo was starting to put things together, his mouth opened, and closed, and he just looked from John to Sherlock.

“Well, any time you want to start working Greg, you are welcome to.” John returned. “One of us has to do something…”

Greg laughed.

“Yeah, come to think of it, the only time I ever worked with you, you had to be the hero…” McMurdo joined in.

“Hey, wait a minute here… what is this, gang up on John day?”

Sherlock smiled at the banter that was taking place. He saw the enjoyment that John took in the camaraderie of the other agents. If it were up to him, Sherlock would have preferred to do all the debriefs via Skype, where he could just close the lid when someone annoyed him. Before today he hadn’t understood what Mycroft had meant when he said that face to face meetings contributed to team building, and stronger departments. Sherlock didn’t want to build relationships with others. But seeing John smile, he had a little understanding of something new, and a bit more respect for Mycroft’s strange ideas.

**

Altamont and John were outside at Hyde Park at the Lido Bar. John preferred Sherlock’s signature look, his suit and dark shirt, scarf and great coat. But his Altamont alter-ego, for it was more than just an alias, with his skin hugging jeans and hoodie that made him look ten years younger, was charismatic in his own way. And seeing Altamont, hunched shoulders and sauntering gait, made John almost believe that Altamont was Sherlock’s younger brother, or a younger version of Sherlock. It was easy for John to fall into character as Altamont’s minder, and he did, in fact, believe that he was.

Sitting in the sunshine, at a round table with four white wooden chairs around it, they sipped at their fresh lemonade, waiting for their appointment. It had been two weeks since the incident at the bakery, and John’s bruises had all disappeared, although one of his ribs still hurt if he laughed or breathed too hard. Sherlock, or rather Altamont, had picked a public place for this meeting for obvious reasons.

Even though he was expecting them, John’s heart rate sped up when Moriarty and Moran sat down. Altamont, cool as could be, simply sipped at his lemonade, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. John and Moran, however, scowled at each other, their eyes hard and cold, neither one trusting the other long enough to remove their gaze.

Mr. Altamont,” Moriarty cooed. “So nice to see you again. I’m sorry our last meeting was so unpleasant for you.” Moriarty’s smile was insincere, and not mirrored in his eyes.

Altamont had sunglasses on, so his eyes were not visible. “I hope we have come to some sort of understanding. We could not go on like that.”

Moriarty agreed. “Yes, I told Sebastian that he should have been more… accommodating to you. You were to be a guest after all… I hope that it has not altered our current arrangements…” John smiled to himself. Moriarty enjoyed the money, and hoped that Altamont could bring him more. He had to play nice, or the arrangement would end. Jim was greedy and greed could be a tough master. John hoped he would be there when Jim’s master turned on him.

Sebastian continued to glare at John, and Altamont looked over at him. “I do hope that your… associate… agrees as well.” Altamont then looked at Moriarty for confirmation.

“Of course. He will behave himself.”

Altamont smiled wryly and sipped again at his lemonade. A few moments went by before Altamont spoke again. “I have some ideas for… expansion. But I need to make sure that our current… arrangement… is satisfactory.” He looked pointedly at Moriarty, who just looked back at him. Then Moriarty nodded once, and rose. He started to walk away, but Moran was still seated, staring at John. Moriarty cleared his throat, and Moran jumped to his feet and followed.

John and Sherlock watched the back of the two criminals get smaller as they strode away. John’s eyes darted back and forth through the park and around the disappearing men. He was constantly scanning for unwelcome company who may be watching them, especially since they had had the unsavory visitors Moriarty and Moran. He saw nothing unwelcome.

The two men continued to sip at their drinks. John, facing the sun, tipped his chin up, enjoying the warmth of the celestial giant. He knew they were not alone; several sets of organic eyes were strategically positioned to both observe and protect the pair. Plus, electronic surveillance around the café and park had recently been upgraded, prompted by a single well placed phone call by Mycroft. 

The waitress came around again, enquiring about drink requests, but Sherlock gently waved his hand, palm down, side to side over his glass, indicating they were both done. He felt his phone vibrate and held it to his ear for several seconds. Then, without uttering a word, he pushed the button to end the call, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. John mirrored his action.

The pair found their way out of the park to the street, where a dark sedan with tinted windows was waiting. Sherlock opened the rear door, folded himself in, and John followed. Already inside was Mycroft Holmes.

Almost before the rear door was secured, the car lurched forward, blending into the midday traffic. After barely a moment of silence, Mycroft prodded them. “Well?...” The word was drawn out.

Sherlock’s brows were furrowed, his lips tightly pressed together, and his hands slowly rose to their characteristic position under his chin. John waited to hear what the genius was going to say, knowing that his assessment would be far more acute than his own.

“I think that we have progressed to a less vulnerable state… Moriarty _appears_ to understand that personal attacks on either John or myself will not be tolerated.” There was a period of silence where both Holmes brothers were processing, but then Sherlock continued with his thoughts. “It was a bit disconcerting… Moriarty was almost… almost _normal_ in his interactions… He is usually so mercurial, and not at all reluctant to show that side of himself, to act upon it… To see some self restraint… I’m not at all certain which version of Moriarty is the _real_ one… or the more dominant one.”  
Sherlock looked at his partner, and lifted one eyebrow in an unspoken invitation to his opinion. John cleared his throat.

“Ehm… It was odd that there were no taunts… no dramatic changes in his voice, or volume, no… no theatrics… no drama… but it also was the first time we have seen him in a public place, where it would be very easy to draw attention to himself, which he doesn’t want to do. It was a lot like watching an actor… we have seen the crazy Jim, and now we get to see the normal Jim… I can see now how he is able to blend into society and take on different aliases; he is able to act, to _do_ what ever he needs to do to keep a low profile… Seeing how malleable he is… I’m not at all convinced that he intends to keep his word…”

“Nor am I, Dr. Watson, and I am glad to hear you say that, as my brother often underestimates danger, underestimates the abilities of others to best him-“

“He will not best me!” Sherlock interrupted, indignantly. “And don’t speak about me as if I am not here. Of course I recognize that he is a dangerous man!”

“Boys…” John interrupted both of them, his voice possessing a warning tone that the Holmes brothers rarely heard directed at them. “Let’s not argue about this. We all agree that Moriarty is a dangerous man… We need to focus on keeping our alliance focused and on task.” Very few people would have had the courage or the confidence to chide one, much less both, Holmeses. The Captain side of John could not be more apparent. Sherlock looked very proud of the man, and Mycroft appeared to see John with a bit more respect, as if he finally got a glimpse of _why_ his brother thought John such a worthy partner. There was silence in the car for several minutes.

Mycroft, being the senior in the working relationship, once again took the lead. “The case against Moriarty is coming along… satisfactorily. The information that your tracking code has supplied us with is enough to prosecute the business owners… but that is not our goal as you know. They are just the bait. They have given us a few middle men… but no one of great significance. Moriarty so far has not accessed the account you set up for him. He has just let it sit and accumulate.”

“How can you say then that the case is satisfactory?” John looked perplexed.

“Patience, Captain.” Mycroft focused his attention on the sandy haired man. “These things take time to progress and mature. He is biding his time, watching and assessing. He is a very careful man, he will not move in haste, unless he is forced. But eventually his greed will overcome his patience, and he will move.”

“You said that we have identified a few middle men. Are there any outlaying data points?” John wasn’t sure he understood Sherlock’s question, but his brother did.

“None. From the data that we have received so far, all the players, all of the strands of the web, if you will, appear to lead back to Moriarty. There are no strands leading off to other, yet unidentified, foci. That is perhaps the most significant and encouraging point that we have gleaned so far. It is an indication, a preliminary one, perhaps, but an indication, that we have identified a major player in our international crime ring. Perhaps even _the_ major player.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth rose a fraction, then released. “Have you, or any of your other agents, identified any potential targets? Any other potential major players?”

Mycroft looked down at his trousers and flicked an invisible speck off of them. “No.” It was difficult for Mycroft to admit this. Then he lifted his eyes.

Mycroft looked first at John, then at Sherlock, his gaze focus intensely as he did so, as if he were trying to read their thoughts. He then continued. “With what we now know, and given your recent… experiences… are you prepared to continue? I think, at this point, it is safe to assume that the stakes have risen... and the potential for danger has escalated.” He continued to look at the two men. He was concerned about Sherlock’s cavalier attitude about safety and danger; his brother had always underestimated the abilities of others. Fortunately, Watson was more pragmatic.

Sherlock preferred to keep his personal relationship with John between the two of them, but he needed to have a connection with the man beside him to determine if John felt any hesitation or anxiety. He gently placed his hand over Johns, on the seat between them. John turned his hand over, and gave Sherlock’s hand a gentle squeeze. Sherlock knew his answer. “Yes.” He said simply.

**

Not wanting to be seen getting out of a dark sedan in front of Baker Street, John and Sherlock, or rather Altamont, were dropped off about a half of a mile from the flat. The walk back to Baker Street was a pleasant one. John enjoyed Altamont’s easy pace, much more relaxed than Sherlock’s. But he couldn’t wait to get back to Baker Street, where he could enjoy the company of Sherlock, instead of Altamont. After all, he was in love with Sherlock, not his younger alter ego.

Altamont stopped, and looked directly at John. “John, it’s going to be a long road ahead of us. Following Moriarty, maintaining our cover, continuing to track his activities through his banking accounts until we have enough information to take down all of his ventures… It’s going to take a lot of work, and time, even with all of Mycroft’s resources.” John nodded. Altamont was not telling him anything new, anything he didn’t already know. “We will have to try some other methods, do some more digging, to keep his interest and discover all of his activities. I know what I told Mycroft. But I want to be sure that you are absolutely certain about this? We didn’t really have a chance to talk about it in the car. Are you still willing to continue? It could be dangerous.” He said the last sentence with a sparkle in his eye.

John smiled at him. “I’ll go where you want, when you want.” Then the two continued side by side back to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final nod to ACD's The Adventure of the Empty House.  
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


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